


In Keeping

by serpentynka



Series: Sketchy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, Beekeeping, Bespoke object porn, Divergent while compliant, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Secrets, John's bedtime stories, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Political Intrigue, Retirement!lock, Retirementlock, Switching, all the sex, choices which are not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 104,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentynka/pseuds/serpentynka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's orchestrations have 'retired' Sherlock, leaving the consulting detective to fill the gap left by his rapidly-closed career, in an East Sussex cottage of his own choosing, with John.  It is a quiet, not-hateful life.  But puzzles have always come Sherlock's way, and one is about to take a dangerously personal turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mixing of tongues

"Hey."

"John."  Sherlock swishes a vitreous gel in a dish and drops it in place among three others with cloudy solutions. 

John's nose is already losing its pinkish tinge in the dry heat of a small fire at the hearth, to his right.  "What is that?"  he asks, nodding toward Sherlock.  He huffs into clasped palms.  "Bloody fog," he mumbles against them, regretting (in the least colourful terms so far) that he'd left his gloves back at his office.  Cycling to and from work in Eastbourne proper requires more and more gear of the practising doctor, making another for-health ritual less welcome by the day.  Autumn intends to slow them all, Sherlock's beloved swarm included.

"Waiting for the protein coatings to dissolve," he hears as he comes closer to have a look.

"Stinks."  John leans in and sniffs, also at the third of a tabletop he'd swear he's not seen in at least three years. 

Well, that is not accurate.  It has not been the _same_ tabletop.  This one is _their_ long, rarely-exposed, general-use table, intended for dining between living room and kitchen spaces.  That clutter defies many laws of time and space that John knows.  _Legitimate armchair geology:_   _Sherlockius variabilis_. _Jesus._  It looks even worse than usual due to Sherlock's current writing processes, involving new piles in precarious, heaven-bound shapes.  Babel-like.  That, John thinks, covers the concept nearly as well as...all the paper dust.  He sighs.  If anything, he'll take a mixing of tongues, thank you, because a kiss would do.  Once he's thawed his big toes and kneecaps.  "I've got a story, love," John remarks, to start, backing across the living room toward their bathroom while unbuttoning a soft, corduroy jacket.  A favourite of Sherlock's.

"Mm.  In twelve minutes.  Embellish," Sherlock replies without raising his eyes. 

"Yeah, I can.  Embellish.  Sure."

Sherlock allows himself a grin when John has closed the door behind himself and turned on the _blasted_ taps of fire and ice, in today's fully-narrated attempt at achieving a tolerable hand-washing temperature.  "Bloody.  Oi, fff -- ow," John is already growling. 

 _Embellish_.  A naughty story from John is an evening ritual more welcome than most, yet he's not told many recently because he has begun writing a thriller under a pen-name, devoid of the tastier interludes on stairwells, rooftops and car boots that had peppered previous adventure tales, of John's.  _Well, of ours_.

Sherlock is more than punctual; the protein had fallen away three and half minutes early and he'd heard his soldier ( _likely propped up on his right elbow, appealingly undressed_ ), his book already dull enough to be tossed aside with a cough.  Sherlock takes a moment in the kitchen to check switches and hotplates, and another as he nears the bedroom door to collect himself and tame his gut, while schooling a look that will show curiosity but not hunger (nor betray the collected tedium of an afternoon among dust-types, increasingly mist-filtered light, and a yawning gap in telephone calls which has become part of the noise in his head, as well).  

John is sitting on the edge of the bed, without a book, and is slipping heavy socks over his feet.  He has changed into house clothes.  "I was reading about a raid online today.  The red light district, the one in Amsterdam, you know?"

"Oh.  Bulgarian gangs, going on for years, someone didn't get their cut, apparently.  Fourteen of the 'windows' were shut down," Sherlock says, shrugging away his incorrect deduction about John's posture.  "Until an acquittal.  I'd give it five weeks.  It was in all the Continental papers three days ago.  And?"

"Have you ever --"

"No."

"-- Thought about how it would be?"

"Nnn.  Well.  It's well-established, how it functions."

"Ah, yeah.  But have you ever been there, love?  Weren't you ever -- ?"  John licks his lips and stands up, taking his better trousers over to hang by the hems in their wardrobe, in nasty metal clips.

"A case that nearly solved itself, far too obvious to justify more than a text or two, I didn't go, no," Sherlock says.

"Would you?"

"What for."

"To see?" 

John wants to push forward his narrative, Sherlock thinks, and elects to help.  "Too much like shopping?" 

"No, but.  It looks like that in the beginning.  Window shopping.  The streets are full of tourists, taking pictures."

"No, cameras are destroyed on sight, often by the prostitutes themselves."  _Not helping._

"Maybe so, yeah.  So they look sort of hardened, like they're training their faces.  Well this one is training his face, and his eyes, but not to cover up the same thing."  John looks meaningfully at Sherlock, who has the urge to pull John onto their bed. 

"Which is?" 

"That it's not real.  So I see him.  I remember him out of everyone."

"Him."  _Me.  Naturally, it would be me.  We're married._

"It's just a tourist thing and I'm trying to remember that but my head is full of shit, it's worse than before.  Four of us are there, to have a look, and when they've had enough and a couple of laughs we part ways so they can do what they came for whatever that -- uhm.  Might be.  And there's a side street, a sort of less-frequented place where I decide to take a short cut and see what else is back there."

"Unwise," Sherlock sighs.  "Good."

"Heh.  Everything's been bloody commercial and unexpectedly -- arranged, like, so many people come along and look, everything's out to see, for thousands of eyes every night, every single night, and the whole idea has lost its novelty, quick.  It's one thing to imagine yourself sort of finding someone, looking them in the face through the glass, even wanting to connect or make eye contact, smile, I don't know.  But I've seen what I wanted."

"Oh?" 

"Or I haven't, actually.  I think I'd expected something different.  And the evening is about to be more frustrating than I'd planned.  And Jesus, I have already had enough of that place, the pick-ups, all sorts of rubbish lines.  I'd been thinking, you all think I'm tonight's sucker with the walking stick that needs a lay, whatever I can get.  It's pissing me off.  Then I hear it.  'Afghanistan or Iraq?'  I turn and all I see is a dark doorway.  I've got a choice, to answer or keep going, and most of me is saying, sod this chatting up.  Then I think, yeah, actually, Afghanistan, fuck it, maybe it shows?  Nothing to hide there.  I turn and walk up to the black space there and say, 'Afghanistan.  Anything else?'  'That is a psychosomatic limp.'  I say, 'You've got to be --'"

Sherlock stands a bit straighter, because John seems about to walk past him again.  _Why._   "Bored."

"What?" John stops and looks up at him.  "I can --"

"No.  He says, to the soldier, 'Bored'."

"Right."  John moves past Sherlock now and brushes his fingertips over that pale but well-covered chest, flashing a quick, tight smile as he goes. 

"What, John."

"No, all right, I thought you literally, or.  Need to eat."

"I was _literally_ what."

"Bored, of my Amsterdam story."

 _Thus it has come up.  It._ "Never."It.  The stuff of glands rushing to life -- at the back of Sherlock's tongue.  Hairs on his neck, overgrown as they are, seem to perk at it.  It:  potential unstated changes in feeling. 

 _Ridiculous._   John has been living with him in their rural-ish East Sussex cottage for nearly two and a half years, complaining only sporadically, or indirectly, about the silence (as 'ringing ears', 'noisier dreams') and social isolation (ergo work anecdotes are increasing in number and complexity over dinner).  Things are good, albeit the  _quiet_.

Eerie, that.  Here Sherlock thinks not of the silence, but that he'd lived to hear it _._   Or, how his every attempt at creating a life for himself had seemed to point away from a -- Velvet Retirement. 

Privately, Sherlock calls it that.  He hasn't referred to it that way to John, though he may have let that "velvet" metaphor of radical change (and forced retirement) slip periodically, when writing to his 'artist friend', to use his soldier's words.  _Alex, who still claims to be a draughtsman, best described as 'heart of the British Government' were there need for the notion, or the most powerful éminence grise in England, possibly Europe -- were there a need -- nngh, yes, in Europe save Italy, this month -- and who is completely unconcerned about anything further away than the tips of his or Mycroft's noses -- to be fair, lengthy lengths.  Aficionado of things soft, yet lover of Mycroft_.  And the best non-John friend a passionate creature of logic could ask for, whose latest email begs for a snarky response that Sherlock cannot seem to summon from himself.  _Summoning.  Effort with an extra syllable, annoying -- or is that --_

John has cleared his throat.  Sherlock is back with his eyes, following.  "Good, you're not.  Bored.  You know, I'm not bored, just saying," John states, as he must _feel_ a need to. 

"Of course not."

"No, I mean, I've been looking forward to telling you, all day.  And."

"And."

"You all right, though, love?"

"Yes."

"I've not kissed you enough yet," John says, "that much I can see.  Or at all.  Come here, beautiful.  Hmm.  Better already.  How are the papers?"

"Papers."

"I was going to read something for you tonight.  What was that -- you were working on?"

"Weapon choice profiling by age group.  Discarded, impractical."

"Oh.  Sure?"

"Certain."  Sherlock glances up, eyes darting over John's face in complete contradiction, he realises, to what he has just declared. 

John does not seem to have noted that.  "Right.  Anything on?"

"On."

"Hmm?  I mean, in the kitchen, love."

"No, all off.  Oh.  I."  Sherlock gulps a mouthful of saliva southward to a stomach that is about to cramp if he cannot shut off his head.  "Yes."   _Hunger hurts, the body is whetted, sharp with want, the mouth watering with it -- like yesterday, soldier._  

***

John takes a warm stewed dinner into their _orangerie_ , the glass annex off their kitchen.  It is a place with a view of rolling grass that slopes away in the direction of the Channel, and four beehives.  The glassed in room is protecting him (from the encroaching fog) as well as a dozen or so lanky house plants who'd begun to aspire for more; there is a growing pile of glass beakers and tools, covered in dust that might still have more particles of London grime than anything else.  John settles into their increasingly-squeaky ( _heh_ ) double chaise, which now has a few warm blankets thrown across it.  To the trained eye, this could make for a right sex den; to this soldier's mind it really is.   

The night before had been very hot.  It had started out of nowhere.  Perhaps the storm earlier on had got into them but they'd not had such a long, noisy fuck in a couple of weeks, or more.  _Three weeks_.  They'd started to kiss over the dishwashing, and not quietly. 

John chews, swallows and thinks about those sounds, now.  How Sherlock had been looking hard at something in the water as it splashed over his hands, seeming to have forgotten or to have ignored the need to breathe -- too mundane?  _It is, breathing, you always said so until I made you lose your breath sometimes for real, beautiful phoenix, fuck, you were so good._   He'd responded quickly, to John's hand cupped tightly from behind for a squeeze, in a place readier than he'd have liked to admit, for touch, a place he'd not counted.  Places had got too numerous to list, the starved-for-touch ones.  He'd turned around, and had nearly bumped John with a careless nod forward, his hips swaying a bit, feet restless.  He'd kissed John, pushing his tongue through John's lips straight away.  ("That was too good, don't stop, love --")  John had pulled Sherlock closer, until those kisses were stinging in the middle of his lower lip where they'd come hard against John's lower teeth.  Then another one, not that much lighter.  His lip, sucked like the ridge on his cockhead.  Tugged right into Sherlock's plush mouth, for those warm sucks, some ending in a small pop, as he'd pulled back -- _God, he was hot --_  

John rights his plate as he stands, spins on his heel toward the door and heads back to the kitchen.  He does not get far; Sherlock is standing in a dark green dressing gown, waiting to be unwrapped and caught at being naked from the waist down, underneath.  John grins, eyes travelling appreciatively downward, even to _his_ slippers, requisitioned _yet_ again. 

"God, I want you," John says.

"I want you, too."

"You knew.  Great minds, heh.  Take that.  Off, all that."

"Oh?  Now?"  Sherlock looks behind him at the proteins as though torn, and smiles a bit, kicking off a slipper that spins and clunks John's left ankle.

"Uff, right.  Come here."  

"Poor delivery shall be set right...."  

"We uhm, only do this when you really, you know.  Really.  Because I'm good."  John's plate almost misses the counter top. 

_Not a day for smooth deliveries, apparently._   "Really."

John is unbuttoning his shirt and backing into the greenhouse.  "Hmm.  Suck me, and?  Can you?"

"I can.  John?"  Sherlock has closed the last few feet between them and has John's arms clasped in his long hands in several seconds.  Their kiss is only ended by John needing a hand with the zip on his jeans, the ones that beg to be burnt in the near future for ill-timed shows of _impertinence_.  "Blast these." 

"Yeah, I know?" John breathes.  "Buttons are no better, just saying."

"I liked your story, I know where it could go," Sherlock says, bending at the knees and shucking John's offending jeans, inside-out, to the ankle, and pivoting himself over to the chaise, a hand slipping up the back of a black cotton leg-hole, as he closes his mouth over the front of John's pants, and a tiny spot which he might say is of growing interest to him.  "Mmm." 

He has articulated more than enough, to John, in a look.  Sherlock feels a glorious moment when his soldier's body caves a bit toward the warm breath he knows he'll feel across his heated skin -- and if he hadn't been madly hard already, John is right there now, and when Sherlock puts out his his tongue to catch that cock as he pulls away those pants, mouth closing firmly only at its very root, as his cheeks (John is watching for it) flex ( _neck, jaw taut, fuck_ ).  

"Oh, fff.  All day, thinking about you," John stammers and rests a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, and watches.  That hand tightens as much as his thighs, as he moans, "Give it to me like that, now, oh yeah.  Look at you, oh God...."

It is obscene, a show for him, only.  A life (mostly) out of the range of cameras suits them well. 

After all, prying eyes are for leverage, as Mycroft has put it.  And he is never wrong. 


	2. Going to see

Alexander Nussbaum is at the _Diogenes;_ he has been waiting for a lull in Mycroft's activities, and those are rare.  So far, their shared afternoon has passed under the banner of 'tendencies in misinformation tactics' among three emerging pressure groups; a collision point has been created for their neutralisation, which shall certainty take place within three months.  Seven cards and notes have been co-written.  Fond looks have been exchanged, mainly at satellite images of a retreating band of for-hire separatists.  The wording of a convoluted conciliatory settlement is awaiting a review.  Alex stands and crosses over to Mycroft's decanter stand, where he finds a line of glass bottles of Finé water (the artist does not realise they are for him, from Tokyo, but Mycroft cannot spare a moment to tell him).  They look like a tall, provisional blockade to the Armagnac.  Alex approves. 

"Would you care for water, darling?" he asks.  Mycroft shakes his head and Alex pours himself a single glass.  "I was thinking, if I can't go along to Cambridge with you this time I'd like to see Sherlock and John again, before it gets much colder."  Mycroft has only indicated he is listening by blinking and tightening the line of his mouth.  "Because of sleeping arrangements.  They take the greenhouse, and I have their room, you know.  I've spoken to Sherlock already and he said, whenever.  It's been --" 

"A hundred forty-two days since you last saw them," Mycroft quips, raising his eyes at last to meet the artist's.

"Longer than I'd thought," Alex tells him, setting his glass back on the stand, as it cannot be near their papers; his hands are not always steady.  "Now tell me when you'll need me least.  Just before or just after you go to Cambridge?"

"Need.  Inclusivity, significance..." Mycroft answers.  "I've no idea as to the Alexanders of before or after."

"But you don't mind, do you?" 

"Go on, if need be."  Mycroft puts out an arm and Alex approaches and stands over him in his chair.  "We'll make arrangements however you like, of course.  Confirm with my brother this evening."

"Dear Lord, you are lovely to me," Alex says, and means it as much as ever, even if Mycroft is not calmed by praise.  And a moment of disquiet over Alex's desire to travel will go unseen, against the flat of the artist's stomach; a wisp of hair on Mycroft's crown is being petted over and he will emerge from that embrace looking very well composed, and Alex will remind him, in a single smile, that he is a man of unusual fortune.  

"Kitty, listen," Alex says (employing a fully-redundant request marker, though his tone is promising), "After tea I'd like a little nap but tonight I'll have something so pretty to show you.  Or should we wait?"

"No." 

"No?"

Mycroft glances up at his friend again and muses to himself (and here one leans upon paraphrase), that should anyone have the privilege of seeing Alexander dressed all in silks, legs parted slightly at the knees, arms outstretched, with his enormous blue eyes glazed by desire and possibly pencilled in black as well, the idea of 'postponement' _would not suggest itself_.  He is alluring even now, pale as he is, loosening his tie with two long fingers as he returns to his chair at the right side of Mycroft's massive desk.  (It is also the side where Mycroft keeps exotic sweets and invitations with pending replies, all easily overlooked in favour of one delicate -- no,  _iron_ spirit.)  The blur of passing days is far less disturbing to the British Government (who is nearly 53, blast) when lush evenings of silk play, mouth work and petting follow.  He does everything in his power, which is substantial, to keep his only companion well cared for.  And well-hidden, as he deems necessary.

Alex is yawning behind his hands.  "I'm sorry," he murmurs, rubbing his nose. "I'm a bit tired -- sorry."

Of course he is.  Mycroft has never forgiven himself -- for anything, not being the sort to uphold it as a valuable outcome.  He is able to torment himself hellishly, however.  He still believes he may have overturned at least some of the disastrous events which had nearly swept his brother's and his lover's lives from him (he thinks in these terms) two years before, when Europe had "gone to the birds".  The artist (and Sherlock) had contracted a bio-engineered avian virus and emerged altered -- because "altered" is the only word Mycroft accepts.  Estimates are incomplete and subject to pressures from various interests and agencies but he knows that more than 9 thousand deaths are directly attributable to that unexpected and disturbing bioterror attack.  There are no numbers for the careers made and broken during the massive effort to cover up the real source of the viral outbreak. 

"The note, then," Mycroft says, cutting his concern short, "for the Royal Society's invitation, refuse on my behalf." 

"Oh, of course."

"Implicitly, our behalf."  Mycroft waits for a response but notes no change in the character of Alex's movements as he picks up an older black pen, uncaps it deftly and scrolls out a handwritten card:  _Mr Mycroft Holmes regrets that he cannot accept the polite invitation of Mrs Ermina Ostkovy for the evening of --_

"The thirteenth of October," Mycroft prompts.

"Her card says the twelfth," Alex tells him gently.

"Ah.  Yet another day lost to thinking of your silks."

"Oh, now.  You are an impossible flirt," Alex says, his thin face now animated. He smiles, favouring Mycroft with a slight tilt of his head, and raised brow, "Yet if you knew how much I wanted to take you out of those trousers, and what I would do to you right there, it would only make you worse."

"Would it?"

"Mhm.  _The twelfth of October_...oh, that's going to be two and a half for us, kitty."  The artist has dropped his eyes and blinked first at the card and then at the back of his writing hand, where Mycroft's father's weighty ring gleams on his third finger, among other things a reminder of his man's despair in a military hospital corridor.  He chooses to see it as a token of hopes which have been placed on his shoulders.  It also speaks of a status which has never been entirely explained.  A registry error proclaims them married. Their 'witnesses' are likely making love, even now, at the hearth in Eastbourne, none the wiser.  It is confusing to wear (or bear) an object which seems to represent a singular bout of vagueness in the mind of England's greatest decision-maker.  "Is that why you've refused?" Alex asks, forcing himself to focus.

"We'll be away," Mycroft tells him, "for certain. Details forthcoming."

***

"Oh, you.  Little son of a -- _shit_ ," John says, too annoyed to chain together a better response.  A stain the size of a man's hand on the living room ceiling has let fly on his tip of his nose.  It has slapstick timing, too -- he'd been reaching for his tea, fancying himself parched.  And he'd just got to the best section of his newspaper.  He now tosses it aside and springs to his feet, pushing the armchair back with his foot.  He looks up at another trembling drop to come and bares his teeth at it.  "Shhhhhit, come on.  Love?  Sherlock!" he calls, over the roar of...the rainfall outdoors.  _Well, fuck._ He grabs the mug.

"Mmm, bath," comes the response, slowed and deepened by nearly an hour of soaking.    

"Yeah, yeah."  John stomps toward their bathroom, tea sloshing onto his hand.  "Fff."  He raises his hand to his mouth and sucks off some of the spill as he pushes the door open.  "You know that brown stain.  The bigger one on the ceiling."

Sherlock looks up at him, nose barely over water.  He raises his chin. "Bigger one."

"On the ceiling."

"Now a bigger one.  And 72 hours of rainstorms forecasted, yes."

"We've got to get a proper roof on this place.  Got any buckets?  Where are your honey buckets?"

"No."

"Love."

"Garden shed."

"Right.  We'll use the pots, unless...."

"...And Alex is visiting."

John's face tenses even more.  "Alex.  Great."

" _I_ thought so," Sherlock remarks, blowing a little stream of air across the calm water in front of his face.  It's got all the impact of a shrug or an eye roll.

"'Oh, sure, come on in, here's a paddle, kitchen's upstream'," John growls.  "Nah, we need to call someone, we can't have people, like this."  A large tarp, he decides, is the minimum for now; when the deluge blows eastward, they've got a project.  "I'll google."

"No.  The counter-UAV on our roof, such as it is," Sherlock says, "means my brother chooses a contractor."

"Call him!"

Frankly, Sherlock isn't in the frame of mind to hear Mycroft out of breath.  He'd rather work on that state for himself.  "Mm, tomorrow," he says.  "Oh, I had a case, earlier."

"Who.  Here?"

Sherlock takes a sliver of cracked lavender soap in hand, brings it to a lather in his palms and begins to rub slowly at his throat.  "Yup."

"You're letting people come by?  Since when."

"When it's of interest."

John narrows his eyes and stares down at one of the pewter-coloured, stylised dragon feet holding his husband's massive, black tub aloft, just out of the way of the most vicious of the dust mice.

Sherlock continues, "An attempt at impersonation, and a rather convincing one, possibly to use in identity theft, later, it's common enough.  If you take in a flatmate who starts to resemble you more and more, you might watch your credit rating, and back," Sherlock says, hoping that John is taking notice of his, as he leans forward a bit in the water to soap his shoulder blade, over-handed.      

"For axe swings.  Sorry.  Reminds me of a book," John replies.  "Well, we aren't resembling each other.  You're still, uhm, bloody beautiful.  Look, I need to -- get a pot?  It's leaking over my chair.  You're letting people bring cases?  Again?"

"She was a golfer, so a good swing.  _Could_ be dangerous," Sherlock sighs, and John tries to smile.

"About Alex, though, when?"

"Awaiting authorisation by MI6 and MI5 and a number of ministerial departments, meh meh."

"Will I get another bloody instruction leaflet?  Or will they leave him with a hang tag?" John mutters, leaning on the door frame.  "'Pleeease look after this man'."

"By now there's a manual," Sherlock says, pulling himself up into a crouch.

 _God._   "Poor bloke, all I can say."

"John."

"Yeah.  Hmm, what."

Sherlock is soaping between his legs, lingeringly pulling a hand over his sac and cock.

"Love, the drip.  Hmmm.  Got to get -- something."

"What for."

"Bed.  In five, or.  Je-sus."  John bites his lip and shuffles away to rummage for their widest steel soup pot, which he then positions at the foot of his chair.  _Not good._   The pop of a rubber plug, the slurp of the draining bathtub, and the neurochemical flood that follows all mean he's listing where he'd like his mouth, and roof shingles can go to hell, for now.  He marches into the bedroom to find Sherlock with his legs crossed, hand cupped over himself, grinning.  John sheds his shirt and trousers and climbs onto the bed, pushing a long leg aside, and nuzzling his face down into the damp hair on Sherlock's balls while taking one between his lips, lolling his tongue just behind, and listening. 

Soon he lets go and rubs light kisses over the other as Sherlock gets increasingly impatient.

A text buzzes on Sherlock's phone.  _That will be Alex._    _Of course.  SH._

 _Of course._   Sherlock hums as John's tongue dips back toward his perineum.   _Allowing._  He has a certain scenario he likes to think of, one he keeps carefully guarded.  It had come about -- fortuitously, when John had returned home to Baker Street early one day, eager for a shag; his and Alex's paths had nearly crossed at the threshold.  The mere idea of the artist slipping out the kitchen door, then choosing to stand by and listen through the door to John's first greedy licks, has strayed in the naughtier corners of Sherlock's mind ever since. 

 _Those_ thoughts had nearly come to life, another night, during Alex's first visit to their home.  He'd fit ideally in the scene, his calm face half lit by moonlight as he'd sipped at water, no more than three yards away.  His soft, wise eyes had been on _them,_ their forms, their unambiguous movements on their chaise.  But it had only been a moment, the briefest, knowing exchange of eye contact, and then he'd gone back to bed.  As one does.  Sherlock imagines how -- he might -- no.  _No._  

He is painfully hard.   _We're married, it hardly matters who sees._

"Liking this," John breathes.  "Love, I need it," he whispers, his breath very close to Sherlock's hole. 

" _Nngh_ \-- yes --"

"God you're hard, love.  I love seeing you like this."  He pokes his tongue into the soft, tiny folds and Sherlock groans quietly.

_A gentleman would never approach on his own, only see accidentally.  Quite --_

The idea of being ( _what would the word be, John?_ ) that shameless -- _accidentally shameless -- ?_

"I want you on me," John tells him, as he rubs a palm of lube over the top half of his cock.  "I'll want you all over me.  Ride me first?"

 _The house is small; it would not be hard to bring things around to that._ "Y - es --"  Sherlock answers.  _Someone should know how John is_.  He crouches over John's lap, looking down between them at John's fist, the way he is holding himself still for the taking, hardly able to wait for his heat.  He smiles.  He could let it outside of his head, for instance, that John has a whimper which drops straight into a deep growl.  _Which is the most erotic sound ever accompanied by warm streaks of ejaculate, often John's first, and rough-chinned midnight kisses._   

John guides him down and huffs, smiling, "You're amazing.  Nobody in the world like you, if you could see it, love.  If you could see what I see.  Seriously."


	3. Routines to live for

_And for you, John?  Alex_

John shakes his head to himself as he pinches off one edge of a saucy sandwich, from Sherlock.  He's just asked Alex to go on and order a new button-less silk blouse for Sherlock; he has two and they've seen plenty of action.  John sighs, in tribute.  The older one had even needed a collar repair recently and he'd stitched it up finely himself, like he might a split brow.  As long as there's someone willing to hand-deliver one of those cedar-scented packets straight from Jermyn Street (which Sherlock covets but doesn't overtly ask for), John's going for it.  "Got plenty," he mumbles, mouth full again, to his briefly-empty office.  He glances up at the clock on his wall.  _Ensuring multilateral agreement between all parties, as usual?  Not a bad thing, though_.  Alex serves ( _yes, probably the word_ ) a go-between function that John, for one, would not take five minutes of without lunging for arteries.  _My own_.  _Damn, this is good.  Where's he getting -- whatever this spice is?_   A few uncalled-for images pushed aside, mostly involving a cutaway of Mycroft's carotid, John goes in for a summary:  Alex enjoys Eastbourne, a lot.  Mycroft displays faith in John's medical skills and doesn't send along a nurse.  It will be the artist's fourth visit.  Sherlock enjoys having someone to spar with and show his work to (sometimes even too much), moping childishly afterward, which begs for recovery sex, and that's _very_ fine.  Routines to live for, really. 

John sips some of the tea that's gone tepid at his right hand.   _Routines?  Maybe too many of those, lately._ There's another thing, and he doesn't like to come back to it:  the Holmes brothers' shared friend ( _whatever that's about_ ) is the only person who has bothered to Skype with Sherlock regularly or come to see him, from the circle of people they had left behind in London.  That has been an (unwanted) eye-opening experience, for John.  People are not bothered to talk, outside of holiday texts.  Mycroft has never set foot in their house, either -- not that he's been asked to cross through that buffer of 80-odd miles, but he'd never waited for invitations before.  _An umbrella in the living room would be welcome about now.  You'd better have called about the roof, my love._

***

Sherlock notes he has paced with his phone clasped in his hand for a ridiculous seventeen minutes.  _Annoying._   His swarm still cannot fly out to eat, in the continual downpour.  _47 degrees.  Think!  Enough._ He has also plunked a third pot in the living room, in a spot near the front door, not at all in line with the previous two leaks. 

There had been nothing of relevance online, aside from a curious increase in non-fatal falls from a certain cliff in Brighton.  _Not leaps, but falls._

Sherlock is in a cycle of restlessness followed by passivity (they interchange a few times during the day) and pushes down urges to slip out and see to a few minor things in London (points of growing interest to a trouble-bent mind); he does not want to leave John, and while he has not said so (what does he actually _say_?), the likelihood of being intercepted and brought to a certain insular club for misfit cronies acts on him like a repellant material, of the sort they _really_ need about six feet over his clouded head. The dripping has got worse in the last several hours, alone. 

He ought to be sending on three simple letters plus auto-signature.  _Y-u-p._   Better still would be confirming it, in person.  _Yes._ Though Alex's heart does not leap and skitter, now, much.  _Paced, hemmed in._   He almost drops the phone when a text buzzes against his palm.  _Nngh, enough._

_Hi my love :) So when can someone fix the leaks?_

_Will confirm shortly.  SH_

_Call again if you have to?_

_Hell._   There are the security devices drawing nagging limitations through parts of his life, for instance online -- and occasional text updates, devoid of personal content.  Yet Sherlock has not heard Mycroft's voice, outside of his head, in a month or more, and even then it had been muffled, passed through Alex (simple greetings, prompted).  

The separation should make him far calmer.  _What is it._ Nearly four more minutes have passed, for certain. 

               

                _Yes.  SH_

_Lovely!  Thank you, I can hardly wait to see you both.  At Frederick's now ;-)  Alex_

_Alles Gute from Frederick!  Alex_

_You'd adore these materials, I can't even choose.  Alex_

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and dials his brother.  When he hears the distinct double click that stands in for ringtones, he inhales deeply and prepares his first words in a dozen or so weeks:  "Fair to inform you first.  He has forsaken you, for the Brazilian tailor."

"Worse still, I asked him to," Mycroft replies.  "So.  I wondered what the rains were doing to your living room furnishings," he remarks, foregoing the greetings that Sherlock had wished him to.  A relief to them both.  "It's hardly let up for days here, either."

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.  "Her Majesty's Naval Service might spare..."

"-- A submarine?  Otherwise employed just now."  (Sherlock would swear to it that Mycroft is _smiling_.)  "Ah, which reminds me," he says gratuitously, "to tell you that Roman Wilk is back in Brighton."

 _Running -- what goods.  Newly divorced, then...?_  Sherlock hums, "I should have called my Uber driver?"

"To coordinate the roof repairs, naturally, unless you have other plans."

"For a driver?  Plenty."

"He'll call on you this afternoon, prepare accordingly, meaning, dress?"

That feels like much a deeper indictment, made in the _absence_ of cameras in the room.  Sherlock glares down at his pyjama trousers, and an exposed line of furry, pale stomach, which he sucks in before he can resist or reply.

"Stay well," Mycroft says, and the connection clicks off. 

Sherlock looks down at his phone and grimaces.  _Stay well?_

 _Out of character, true.  Ah, well, no harm done._   While speaking, Mycroft had risen from his chair to amble along the length of his office.  He stops now, pockets the phone and looks over at his decanter.  If there is one thing Mycroft dislikes in what he is about to do, it is the double-thinking.  He pours himself a finger of Armagnac.  _Just this one, before the audit of pre-positioned stocks, ordered within hours of a confrontational volley westward.  So much to lose, given backers like theirs.  My little one, they should be taking you back home now_.  His eyes drop closed for the first sip, mind slipping briefly over images of Gascony; the man who had casked this bottle of spirit is long gone, he reflects.  _The processes which outstretch one's...reach_.  He quickly turns his thoughts elsewhere.  _Baklava-like fingers.  Plum drizzled in this earth-and-amber-fragranced spirit.  Pastry like a sun-aged vellum that flakes at his lips.  He is ready to taste more, he says, with eyes unbearably softened into the very blue of shadows cast where there is long sunlight.  Even a man's shadow in Gascony is unlike those seen here, at home.  And once he has put out his tongue for the last trace of plum, one might kiss it?_ He swallows.  _My brother would sooner swim to and from his armchair, apparently.  The so-named militant-exodus last week came once the -- ah, and their numbers.  Not trafficking as suggested but by invitation, a new alliance between ruling families.  Distilled.   Indeed, through decades of misdirected aid in the region.  The work of a single mediator.  Sent by -- ah.  Of course.  No need for the audit.  Of interest to a certain ministerial board, if any of them were in a position to utilise a tip-off of that sort.  There are numerous pedestrians at crossroads, you must sit in the centre of the seat, little dove.  You'll have chosen the olive, out of nostalgia.  Tea upon your arrival at the house, though the scalded milk should be minded, kept in the centre of the tabletop, where no spillage could reach --_ He takes another sip.  _That I needn't hurry nor wait -- with the most urgent expression around the eyes.  Dearest one._ The phone is out, again.  _For extreme ills, indeed._ Mycroft turns and sets his glass down before ringing Wilk. 

_"Dzień dobry, Panie Romanie, jest Pan potrzebny od zaraz, w charakterze złotego rączka, tym razem w Eastbourne.  Drobiazg taki." *_

_"Owszem, proszę Pana.  Co należy robić i na kiedy?"_

_"Na wczoraj, wymiana dachu, co najmniej częściowo.  Sprawa jest pilna ale i delikatna...."_

\---------------

_* Polish texts:_

_\- Good day, Roman, you are needed straight away as handyman, this time in Eastbourne.  A minor thing._

_\- Of course, Sir.  What needs doing and by when?_

_\- 'By yesterday', a change of roof, at least in part.  The matter is urgent though delicate...._

 

***

"Pot, John," Sherlock says, almost as if making an introduction, as John closes the inner front door behind himself with a sniff.  His eyes are already on Sherlock, who is sitting angularly at their table, one knee up, elbow folded against it, neck impossibly long, back arched forward, watching something in front of him -- again, a protein change of some sort, John thinks, and breaks out of that stare just in time to avoid tripping over about a cup of rainwater in a steel pot, surrounded by splash marks.

"Well, and?  When?" he asks.

"Tomorrow morning, eight."

"Good.  Can they do anything if it's still --"

"Ingenuity, engineering, boring."  Sherlock finally turns to John, eyes darting over him.  He'll explain who'd been by another time, perhaps at eight the following morning, by text.  "Bethany or Lil?" he asks.  "Lil.  Bethany's dog hair --"

"Bethany's dog's...heh.  Nah, it was Lil, thank God," John smiles, and yes, he'd given in and accepted a ride home because it is horrid out and people do reach out; unfortunately, his bike is still standing in the locked foyer of the clinic.  "Wanted to get home in one piece.  There was a hit and run about four miles away this morning, works on the imagination."

"Yup."  _Not only the imagination._

"Now.  How's --"

"He is...himself.  As ever, what would you expect."

"No, love.  How are _you_.  And God, this ceiling looks like shit.  Hm.  Any of that soup left from last night?"

"Mhm."

"Sherlock."

"Mm."

John stops by Sherlock's chair to smooth his man's hair, which resists him.  "You know.  Uhm.  Something's coming from London --"

"I know, he texted."  Sherlock wants to smile at his own joke but then realises it's far more entertaining to hear John sigh.

"So you already know about what I ordered," John says.

"Ordered."  _Brilliant!_ Sherlock attempts an innocent recovery.  "Mm?"

"Oh-ho, nope.  This is how surprises get ruined, no more details."

"A shirt, for me."  Sherlock is following John with one of his more penetrating looks, now.

"Even if it is, and I'm not saying, you don't know how it'll look," John says, and here he righter than he knows.  "Don't even guess."

"I never --"

"Yeah you do."  The soldier puts up his chin, but there is far more affection in his face than anything else.

"Dark blue silk."  Sherlock drops his gaze to his stomach and lap and tries not to laugh aloud at the way John has turned away and flexed his hands.

"Oh, come on, he told you."

"Like the first, but not the herringbone weave as it was not available...."

"Hey, now."

"As for other details, you...asked for a shorter cut," Sherlock suggests.

John's tongue passes between his lips as he clicks on the cooker and sets a pot of leftover creamy chicken broth on it.  It's as good a reply as any.

"And why would you.  John."

 _When you're on me, I want to see everything.  And when you fuck, you should have it easy.  Silk on my back, your stomach, the flex in it, fuck, access, that's why I'd, have to ask?  It's about how that always feels so fucking soft and you fucking hard.  Fucking me hard.  Got to feel that again.  Too much soup in this pot._ "Hey, have you eaten?  You didn't eat any of this, today?  The level's the same."

"Nngh."

"Love, you're not taking care.  You promised."

"Hadn't noticed the time."  _At particular times.  Stupid._

"Don't know where you're going to get the energy from," John mutters, waving a wooden spoon and dunking it pointedly, into the soup.  "Hm.  Thought you might return a favour.  Later on.  Before bed."

Sherlock blinks.  _Favour.  Favoured.  Floor, fire.  Favourites.  John on his knees, face turned to the fire, spread, head rested on his forearms.  For me.  Asking for me.  Mine.  Will not bite him.  Might bite him._ "Pass me a bowl."   _Loves me, always.  Always._

"Thought you might see it my way," John replies.   _That's called win-win, my love._   


	4. Tied

Weather and traffic are but two of the available topic choices, when one is naked from the waist down.  Home improvements and repair-people endured are yet another.  Thanks to a glut of horror stories from patients, John has come to expect nothing short of two weeks of hell, complete with urine-stained fence boards, from the roofing job.  He leaves for the main road to Eastbourne, at seven-thirty; a nurse is to pick him up (possibly the beginning of a useful arrangement for the cold season) and drive him to the clinic.

Sherlock rubs his hands together and waits for Roman Wilk. This is the same Polish civil engineer who'd once found himself at the centre of a dangerous intelligence intrigue in Vilnius, and who has since returned to less life-threatening activities -- like work for Mycroft Holmes or overseeing the occasional dodgy shipment into Brighton from France (also under the mast of the British Government). The man arrives punctually at eight, behind the wheel of a large lorry, the bed of which contains a rusty metal container for construction rubbish.  He has also brought a band of four Ukrainians and a second Pole; Roman's skill set, thinks Sherlock, is wasted on the elder Holmes, but he has no objections to the speed at which scaffolding and a makeshift canopy are erected about the house, in a light drizzly rain.  Not much later, a call is made and a second truck arrives with prefabricated, obtusely triangular wooden beams.  An enormous heated fan run on a generator and held by two men blasts the crawl space.  The garden is filled with wood chips and debris; two men rake at it and swear heavenward.  The shake is nailed in, starting at two in the afternoon.  The crew does not let up as a group for a meal; Roman will not allow it and quietly manhandles any attempts at break-taking:  they have all been promised a ridiculously large sum, which is reduced by a third every 12 hours beyond the first day of their labours.  Thus the entire roof on the cottage is replaced in a single (long) workday.  A certain sensitive instrument, which has warded off private and military drones, has been replaced with a slightly different technology -- a change Mycroft has not consulted, even with his closest person, and does not intend to.  

Sherlock texts John about picking up some small shopping before returning home on his bicycle, after dark.  John does not see the chaotic network of ankle-deep grooves all over the garden left by the trucks, nor a place in the fence that had got knocked to the side and will need seeing to.  What he does find is his very smug phoenix, leaning anything but casually against the kitchen sink. 

"What.  Hey.  Oh, come on.  What," John grins.

"You'll see in the morning," Sherlock purrs.  "Roman Wilk sends his greetings."

"Roman."  John's face falls and pales.  "Uhm.  Hmm.  All right, greetings, Roman.  Come here.  Come, my love."  John holds Sherlock tightly and kisses the side of his neck.  "God, I could never lose you, don't even want to think about it."  He has admitted it.  _There_.  He wishes he could stop thinking about it, right then, but has to try to push down the sound of a lethal, booby-trapped pistol, instead. 

Sherlock pets the back of John's head.  _Enough, soldier._   "Then don't.  We have a new roof."

"When are they doing it?  Installing it, or whatever?"

"'They' will be in no state to install anything tomorrow.  The work crew is off celebrating a fireproof roof well done, and the pots, John, have also been employed otherwise.  Sit."

"God, I love you," John blurts, "you mad creature.  Are you serious?" 

Sherlock is.  He's been outdoors much of the day, fancies himself giddy with ozone, and he'd like to have the eating done with.

***

Mycroft announces, before sending Alex off to bed, that the conditions of the Eastbourne house "now allow habitation".  He gets a dozen excited pecks over his cheeks ("They did it!  Lovely!  Of course they did!") and then an unknown number of kisses, _which are_ , the artist explains while sucking the tip of Mycroft's right earlobe, _just the beginning of a very long and sweet farewell_.  And it is so.  Finished farewells, however, do not go well between them.  Once on his way south, in the hermetic silence of Mycroft's car, Alex tries hard to remember to breathe out far harder than in, and cries for more than half the way.

His arrival at Sherlock and John's place is far more pleasant.  He throws his arms around Sherlock, because he can, and holds him for longer than either of them had expected.  Neither will mention that.  "You dear man," he says, "you're as grey as ever." 

He is referring to himself but Sherlock had dressed in actual clothes to receive him, so he grunts and passes a hand over the single, narrow stripe of white hairs at his temple -- which John has _not_ mentioned, lately.  An acrid remark dies on the tip of his tongue.  _Not him, don't._ "How is London treating you?"

"Deduce away?"

"You don't mean that, for one," Sherlock says, airily.  "You've also been to Frederick's, I'm not going into what you've got under your tweeds, give me your bag."  _What have you got, what.  You are smiling far too much, there it goes again, mm.  Excellent.  Open book.  He's not got the better of you, yet._

***     

"Can we talk?" Alex asks John, once he has finished washing up and has returned to the living room, looking to join the scene in the kitchen, involving crepes and cooked apples with raspberry syrup.  Sherlock has just ostentatiously licked some off his fingers.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," John says, eyes lingering over Sherlock's hand.   _You_.

"Pardon us, dear," Alex says to Sherlock, who shrugs.  Once their backs have turned he tracks John's retreat after the artist, into the bedroom, with more open curiosity _.  Nngh.  Gifts._

"What's happening?" John says, shutting the door behind himself.

"I wanted to tell you something," Alex says in a low voice, bending over his suitcase bag, which is spread open on the bed.  "But, ears."

"Yeah?" John has an urge to see more of the contents of that bag, mainly because he is convinced Alex makes himself up, possibly for a certain Whitehall-standard-issue relative ( _shit, try un-seeing that sometime_ ).  A little jar of eye-shadow powder and a black liner pencil had once fallen out of the artist's travel case, practically in front of John's face.  _Not that -- because it's...fine._   John tells himself off.  _And what the hell am I even.  No._

"This is for you," Alex says, his eyes now earnest and intense.  "It's not well-known, a private printing of fifty copies only, sadly.  He was a Sergeant in the Great War, and that's a pseudonym, of course.  It reminds me of some of your stories, in places.  Are you still writing?"  He produces a slim, linen-bound vintage book without a visible title. 

"Yeah, yeah."  John nods.  "Trying to.  Thanks.  Hmm."

"And I have two blouses for Sherlock," Alex continues, this time in a whisper.  He starts poking his thin fingers around in the clothes, which are meticulously folded.  Were Sherlock in the room, he would recognise that Mycroft had arranged the creasing of the shirt arms and trouser legs just so, could deduce a longer wait than expected for the car, _and_ declare his brother's fuss-level at _critically infuriating_.

"Serious?  Good, that's.  Why two?  Two of the same?  Which is.  Uhm.  Fine, too.  It's not about -- money," John feels compelled to clarify.  He flips through the book, which looks to be a journal account with war memoirs and political changes just following.

"No, they're different.  Frederick had a gorgeous silk remnant but it was a bit too small for what I'd wanted." 

John's eyebrows twitch.  Alex continues, "But fine for a shirt.  And I thought Sherlock should have it, so I took the liberty of adding it to my order.  I hope that's all right."

"Thanks, sure." 

"But you can't tell Sherlock it's from me, please.  Maybe you'll give it to him tomorrow?"

"Sounds like a good incentive."  _To get him to eat something._   John coughs, craning his neck toward the suitcase.  He sees jeans and a blue Oxford shirt for his trouble.  "So.  Where are they?"

"They're wrapped up as gifts.  One is the midnight blue, and the other a sort of lighter steel grey, also without buttons."

"Right.  I guess just keep them in there, for now, I'll take whichever, later."  John licks his lips.  "Ta, though, he'll be happy.  He's in a sort of -- rut.  Maybe not that bad, but, well, he's -- glad, you know, that you're here.  Uhm, look --"

John had managed to forget how Alex's eyes can tear up, instantly. 

"I'm very glad to be here, too, John.  I'm sorry."

 _Oh, shit_.  "What's -- going on in London, then."

"One moment."  Alex gestures at his face and takes a deep breath.  "This is not London, it's more -- global.  If I may say so.  It's just a coming-down after a lot of work, it's nothing."

"Sure?"

"The façade, as well --"

"How's Mycroft, though?  Because I don't know if, uhm.  He might not actually ask."

"I know.  I must say, though, he's doing better than ever.  Fit as a whip.  Yes.  Ahm.  A bit lonely.  I hate to leave him.  He worries a lot when I travel."  Tears are welling in his eyes, again.

John nods.  This is looking too familiar for comfort.  He knows separation anxiety; he has had plenty of sleep disruption over fears of losing Sherlock to senseless accidents or illness, and the experience with the bird flu had made all of them more reflective.  _There is no shame in admitting to gratitude, or humanity, damn it_.  Alex has turned away in order to focus on something more pleasant in his head.  John sighs.  As expected, a care-tag-type message had arrived several hours before, from Mycroft, with a large attachment.  And while not a manual, John had noticed a new med and more references to 'rest', in it; there is also a request to extend the stay should Alex suggest he would like to.  "We should go back out, have some dinner.  It's fine.  Take a minute, or.  Breathe."

On previous occasions Alex has found himself more and more fond of John, whose respect (largely wonder at Alex's resilience) is a constant, alongside Sherlock's pricklier though also welcome humour.  Just now, the doctor's honest, worn face is making it much harder for Alex to calm himself.  "We should," he agrees, and turns away to wipe at his eyes with a linen handkerchief.  "So I told him what you wanted."  Alex blows his nose.  "It's also my fault for being on the subject of ties, on nightclothes."

"Ties...?  What -- oh.  Right, talking to Frederick."

"Mhmm.  You know, for closures.  He doesn't work like a lot of the tailors. He cuts more conceptually."  Suddenly Alex is talking very quickly, perhaps to stave off more tears.  "All you have to tell him is what effect you want, and in this case, well, you see, when Mycroft goes in for trousers, his Carter takes measurements, compares what he has in a card file, shows him materials according to his previous suits, and so on.  I tell Frederick:  I need a _garment_ for my legs, unlike anything else I have, it has to be X material, and they are not to be removed by anyone but me.  For instance.  Well."

"Uhm --" _Whoa._

"Let's?" Alex says, gesturing at the door.

Sherlock looks startled at Alex's state and runs his eyes over the book in John's hand, a deduction and question blocked by John's request that they eat straight away.  He has also aimed a dark look of "don't" Sherlock's way; Sherlock rolls his lips between his teeth and makes eyes at the wall.   _My brother tires you and you allow it._

***

It is nearly midnight; there has been plenty of chatter and tea, and even some reading aloud, at the hearth.  Sherlock and John are now alone, again.  Their house guest had retired to their bedroom with a polite bow goodnight, though only Sherlock had noted a tinge of colour in his cheeks (a rare sight but analogous to his husband's pink ears).  John, who is now breathing through his nose slowly, has just presented Sherlock with a cedar-scented packet from London.  

The first silk shirt ('second', but first to be unwrapped, by chance) is a serious improvement, he thinks, on his original idea of soft, button-free bed-wear for Sherlock's otherworldly top half.  _Oh, fuck, yes._   It's definitely grey (maybe steel grey), but for now he can't get his brain around what is happening on the back of it.  Sherlock is showing it off, sparing him nothing.  He is very turned on, himself, and his eyes are glittering in response to the lust in John's.  They circle each other, a bit, in the living room.  John shakes his head and puts a finger over his lips.  While the shirt tails are just long enough to cover Sherlock's arse and most of his cock (if cold, or post-whatever, a detail that _does not matter now, there is his -- oh, God, he wants it_ ), it is split up the spine.  The parting in the material ends just below the shoulder blades.  There is a soft tie, which is wide and flat, at about the waist, so it cannot be felt if his mad phoenix finds himself thrown on his back, John thinks.  That length is holding it all shut.  Barely.   _Begging to be pulled open.  Oh, Jesus, yes, got to have your hole, now, how can you even look like that, you, and be mine, I can't_.

"Any thoughts?" Sherlock whispers, and breaks into a smile when John sucks in his breath and shakes his head.

"Can't think, right now.  That's, uhm.  Staying on you.  Oh, God."

_Excellent._

"Can you get on your knees, if I -- get the blankets," John says in Sherlock's ear, and tries to pay attention to pulling at his own stubborn zipper as fast as he needs to, as he turns away to grab what they keep in the greenhouse, on the chaise.  He returns, rubbing the top of his cock through the worn cotton of his pants; he gives himself a gratulatory squeeze.  "God, love, where's the lube.  Condom," he says hoarsely, also straight into Sherlock's ear, when he's close enough again.  His speech faculties are taking a dive, much to Sherlock's delight; he nods toward his chair.  He is closer to it, of course, and crawls a foot or two ahead to reach in.  The bottle is deeper between arm and cushion than he'd remembered; he takes his time and then turns on one knee to have a good look before handing over what John is waiting for.  The fire light is cutting over John's stomach and chest.  He is in a worn, close-fitting t-shirt.  His pants are hardly holding him in.  But what he'd not expected to see is John worrying his lips in his teeth.  He looks crazed, eyes on that tie. 

***

Alex has mostly been forgotten, though it cannot be said that the artist has forgotten himself.  He is sitting on the bed in the dark, wrapped in silk pyjamas and part of the sheets, attempting to finish the rosary, with a broad smile that will not go down.  He would gladly call Mycroft; once finished with the prayers he settles on a cautious text message and receives a near-instant reply, most likely automated due to his location and the meetings he is attending: 

               

_See the outer pocket of your valise, should they spare you a quiet moment.  MH_

 

 _Should they_ , Alex thinks, all the closer to giggling aloud.  He glances over at his travel bag, which is on a chair in the far corner of the room, near a small but unlit wood-burning stove.  _Oh, Lord, this bed, though._   In the other room, John has just hummed rather loudly; the two have been trying to whisper but Alex is more than certain that he's just heard an ongoing blowjob -- which seems a hurried one to him, were anyone to want his thoughts. 

After about another minute of those sucks, sighs and what he might describe as gutturals and whimpers, he reminds himself that his present arousal is his own fault, for listening to pornographic films rather than watching them, under a certain delusion which he'd rather not reminisce over, just now.  He rubs his face in an attempt to control an oncoming laugh and eases himself off the bed.  _Oh, dear._   It creaks naughtily, as does a floorboard just next to it.  (Sherlock, whose ear is close to the floor, has heard both; his eyes defocus as John growls between his legs and asks if he wants a thorough rimming now that his friend has fallen asleep.  He...really does.)  Alex tiptoes over to his bag (as well as a dizzy man of his stature can in the light of his phone), and unzips the largest pocket on its front.  He slips in his hand.  (" _Jeeeesus_ \--", he hears) and finds a flat packet.  He gingerly lifts it out, works a finger into its wrapping and worries it open as quietly as he can.  It is a leather-bound journal, with a dark blue cover, which he notes comes from a stationer's in Florence.  There is also a handwritten card inside:  _May it bring you as much pleasure as the others._   Alex's brow quirks as John moans, " _God, love, yeah._ "

The artist snatches up a Pigma pen he'd intended to use otherwise, cracks open the journal to its second page, and relates, to nobody, in a loose hand:

_22\. Sept._

_We have all heard of the immediate camaraderie found in foxholes, and I'm falling for you already, beautiful one. I've just realised I've not written much of anything in terms of journalling, for nearly two years.  It was very thoughtful of my ginger kitty to give me such a pretty book for when I am idle and others are frantically sucking one another off.    I hear and am taking heart in the love of men who were literally destined for each other & what sounds like a happy unveiling, meaning the untying of the sashes that hold S's new shirt closed over his arse, and which may be immediately re-purposed to tie his wrists, ha ha.  I am pleased to have had a small part to play in it.  Hats off to our Frederick of Jermyn Street, too, for giving yet another of my naughty thoughts a sartorial form.  I miss my M so terribly already and wish I had brought something of his along.  Ah well, I do have myself, and I am certainly his.  Now I must put you aside, dear book.  Oh, you will soon learn my ways.  What a start, OMG I am hopeless._

 

He rolls onto his right side and switches off his phone screen; he shuts his eyes and slides two fingers against his palate.  He comes abruptly, choking back a laugh, just after hearing John ask for "a hammering". 


	5. For the record

John and Sherlock have gradually caught their breath together, during plenty of slow kisses.  John sits back first, when a stick of wood in the fire pops noisily.  Soon, they both try to wash up quietly in the bathroom for bed, but end up brushing their teeth in the kitchen sink, bumping elbows.  Sherlock considers informing John that they needn't suddenly spare Alex the sounds of spitting toothpaste, but scrubs that remark off his tongue. 

John tells Sherlock to go settle in and lugs their blankets back to the chaise.  They warm each other.  A few stars are visible for the first time in days, and John stares one down until a cloud drifts between them; it's breathtaking (he has Sherlock flopped against his chest, which does interfere with a chap's lung capacity but in the best way he can imagine).  He tangles his fingers in the curls behind Sherlock's ears.  _Phenomenal tonight_ , thinks John, and wishes he had a ready-made way to thank Alex for the shirt.  _It was easy enough to open, yeah, he was like, gift wrapped, ready to fff -- good choice, grey, too bad you couldn't use -- uh -- for whatever that was going to be but when I got my hand in it, the tie slipped and I went down on his -- hmmm._   He soon gives up imagining how to phrase it.  _Nnnnnnope_.  When Sherlock starts talking, John notices how heavy his eyes are getting. 

"I sent a tip on the so-called Brighton 'blue body' case, with the indigo dye, John."

"Oh, yeah?  Who -- do you think did all that?"  John yawns.

"A family member, that should narrow the suspects to two."

"Yeah." 

"Blue on the brain.  It seems."

"All right," John says.  "All right.  There's a second shirt and you'll get it tomorrow.  You were right, it's blue."

"Oh?  The grey was..."

"Bloody amazing, on you.  Sexy as hell.  You always are."

"...Not your choice of colour...." 

"Move your arm a bit?"

"...And not your --"

"Hmm.  I love you."  John rubs his nose against his free palm.

"-- Idea.  Alex would not have consulted you first, for approval, unless the back was actually _his idea_ \--"

"Love, enough."

"So I thought.  Sleep well, soldier." 

***

In the morning, John has full reign of the bathroom, first.  He hums happily to himself, squeezes Sherlock's arse cheek while burying a kiss in his neck for goodbye, and leaves the house to cycle to work, uncomplainingly.  Sherlock scrolls through news on his phone screen and makes a second large mug of sweet, black coffee for himself.   As he does so, he listens for signs of revivification from the bedroom.  Alex is slow to rise, as always, but once he has wandered into the kitchen, he makes pointed eye contact and both men break out laughing. 

"Morning," Sherlock states, nodding at the window and taking a sip of his coffee.  He pockets his phone and lets his mind wander over the droll reports.  _Nothing of enough interest to justify sending in a tip._

"So.  Mm.  Forgive me for asking," Alex says, smiling in thanks for a cup of weak Earl Grey that has been passed his direction.  "But, I mean, given his nature -- wouldn't John object?"

"Object, to what, ex-act-ly." Sherlock raises his eyebrows and leans over to clap a lid on a saucepan.  "You're getting quinoa with cranberries and almonds."

"Mm, nice."  Alex takes a chair near Sherlock's latest experiment and sniffs the steam rising off his tea.  (Bergamot is a note sometimes found on Mycroft's throat or cheeks, and he indulges in thinking about kisses he cannot give them, at the moment.) 

"To what.  Object to what."

Alex continues, "Well.  I don't know that he'd want to share your lovemaking, with an audience.  I've come to believe _you_ would." 

Sherlock blinks, every bit as caught as several words seem to have become in his throat.  "I don't know," he says after a significant delay. 

"Dangerous, as answers go from you," Alex replies.  "Not that I mind.  I cannot do, or I'd have to sleep with your bee colony."

 _Mind danger?  No.  Mind -- ah.  Interesting_.  "Mhm."  Sherlock gulps the last of what looks like a leftover crepe and reaches for a tiny carton of mare milk, which he dumps the last drops of in his coffee mug.

"Jokes aside, I consent to your doing what you like, in my presence, but if I were you, I wouldn't take any chance of mortifying him," Alex says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "Says the man who thought up -- _that_.  For _autumn_."

"Your euphemism, not mine," Alex replies, crossing his legs.

 _Touché._   "Mm.  And how's your drawing hand?" 

"As I said -- your euphemism, not mine." 

Sherlock all but spits his drink and ends up snickering through a cough. 

"No surprise he responded that way," Alex adds, the turn of phrase reminding Sherlock of Mycroft, without the addition of snark.  "You let slip once, though not in so many words, that your officer likes making love to you when you're partially clothed?"

Sherlock mentally awards him several points for listening skills.  "And?" 

"What does it mean when a man says he likes having you in clothes?  It's about conquest.  Getting in.  In spite of them."

"Ah -- yup."   _Nnngh._

"Well, the beauty of the clothes themselves also plays in, of course."

"Mhm." 

"They must be thwarted at all cost.  You know.  So.  I can tell you how the idea came to me for the 'autumn' shirt."

Sherlock's cheeks have suddenly gone a hateful pink.  "Oh?"  He winces at his own interest.

Alex has the audacity to wink.  "-- While in hospital.  Their gowns, you know, are begging for improvement.  What!  They are," the artist insists, though truth be told, he'd thought of his own back-buttoning gown and the way Mycroft's nerves unravel in the best possible ways, at the sight of any of them coming open.  That bit he must keep to himself.  _Clearly_ , as Sherlock would mutter it.

"Chocolate?  Cherries?" Sherlock asks, ready for a change of subject.  "You like both, in moderation."

"Moderation, meaning sniffing them, mainly, and not eating them.  Why?"

"Ordering in a tort for this evening."

"A tort?  Lovely!"

***

Their mid-day is spent on talking about, or around, crime; Alex sits with a moleskine and sketches his friend freely, listening or commenting where he finds he can, aware he should not, too much.  Sherlock notices rather quickly that the artist seems less put off by descriptions of violence than he'd once been.  While constant exposure to brother dear's grey files (with whichever international plots and cowardly acts of whatever, significant to _whomever_ ) may be behind it, Sherlock suspects that a lack of contact with reality in the streets has had even more influence, ironically enough.  _An unnaturally insular life, little to fear_.  

Sherlock would be more critical of the precautions his brother takes to hide reality from Alex, were Alex not a bleeder, now -- his morbid imaginings lead his eyes back to a dark bruise on his friend's forearm:  an open gesture had been made too close to a cupboard handle in the morning, and the mark it has left looks like that of a man's thumb, applied with brutal force.  Alex is presently seated in John's armchair, reading and grinning over a casebook that John had kept perhaps six years before.  He is poking bits of a thinly sliced, peeled apple into his mouth; Sherlock had taken a paring knife from his hand, a bit too rudely, almost bruising him again.  Sherlock bites his lips and looks for a new topic.  He is mercifully interrupted, twice. 

"Ahh ha ha!  Oh this is very clever.  John writes here that you noticed the different soil types from planting new flowers, and he'd done it after all, hadn't he!  What a horrific thing to do, hiding his wife in her own flowerbeds." Alex says, as John's key scrapes the front door lock.  "Oh, he's here.  Now, where are you even going.  Receive him.  Honestly, rushing to the greenhouse?" Alex hisses.

"The bees' feeders need filling before dark," Sherlock says, but stays by to kiss John when he comes indoors and drops a rucksack by the door.  He gets quite a few in return.

Sherlock darts in and out of the kitchen looking for his funnels and jars, and suddenly says, provocatively, "Tell my brother that my marriage record is a playground of errors."  Alex nearly swallows his tongue.  Sherlock's eyes are all over him. _Insular life, indeed_.  "Not surprising.  Or not really.  John, set down those keys." 

"Why not surprising, dear," Alex says, almost too gently. 

"What...have I just walked into?" John asks, licking his lips.

"Our marriage record, John.  His second and third names are given as _Gerald Albert_.  Born the 29th of December rather than the 27th of October."

"Ah.  Yes."  Alex nods and glances at John.  "That's all wrong, true."

"Data from a cross-dressing family member of ours, Uncle Rudolph Gerald Albert, same birthdate.  A thorough disappearing job, you're nearly a non-person.  He's changed every record of yours," Sherlock continues.

"Your brother hasn't, a programmer named Nikolai does it," Alex says.  "I believe you're acquainted."

John grunts and shifts his feet.   _Who the fuck._

"Nikita.  Of course."  Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "And you have no photographs left online.  Your artwork is nearly non-attributed.  Welcome to hell!"

"Sherlock," John mumbles.

"Shall we talk about something else besides 'disappearing'?  We were talking about -- murders?" 

"Yeah, love, maybe don't drive him out into the night," John says.  "Or, afternoon.  Whatever." 

Sherlock shrugs and swishes away, grabbing a funnel as he passes through the kitchen, which he spins on one long finger.

John shakes his head.  "Hey," he says to his blinking, pale house guest.

"Hello."

"Uhm.  Good day?"

"Very.  He and I were looking at your casebooks."

"Oh, right, what did you think of those?"

"I recognised some.  Old times.  Well.  So tell me about your practise," Alex says.

"Sure.  In my practise I haven't seen anyone look like you and stay standing.  Look.  What's going on."

"We had a lovely day, the record came up just now --"

"No, I mean, with the record.  What is it."

Alex stares at him. 

John lowers his voice to a near-whisper, though Sherlock is visibly outdoors.  "Right.  'Things can be implied and not said', I know.  Do it.  What is going on with the record."

Alex forces a smile.  "I don't know where to start."

"How about," John says, winding up inside, "with your advanced directive, on your estate, in case of complications in hospital."

"Oh, Lord.  I --" 

"Yeah, I know about it.  Sherlock found a note you left when you finally replaced that porcine valve, he was digging around to find a book or something using your house key, I was downstairs.  He was -- pretty upset.  And looked into it."

"I didn't have anyone else to leave that information with, at the time.  I hope you understand."

"Yeah, yeah, not the point.  You see, I think Mycroft was pulling more than the usual strings, when you were sick.  Look.  I got something in a code-locked case I had to give Sherlock, and you probably got the same, some flu shot, I don't even know.  _I_ don't know."

"It was obtained privately." 

"Yeah, and I've never found anything in papers on that avian flu, about a treatment with that typology, administered cold, causing that reaction and with you know what side effects."

"Please don't --" 

"Not going to.  There's no way in hell you got what you got, without some kind of legal backing.  I'm not stupid."

"Certainly you are not, of course not."

"He got around that directive in your will."

"John...."

"I don't know how, but you're, uhm.  Probably."  John coughs.  "Since when?"  Alex shakes his head almost imperceptibly but his eyes are enormous and dark.  "Hey now," John says.  "Sorry."

"No need to apologise. It's normal life." 

John strokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue and studies Alex, wishing he were better at deductions when it counts.  _They're married.  Have to be._   "You didn't want...?"

"This," Alex says, gesturing at the pacemaker in his chest.  "And I can't even tell you who manufactured it, it's -- not the typical sort, apparently."

"Who has access to the remote.  Or the frequency.  It's not in your --"  _Care tag._

"I don't know."

"Great.  Well, want it or not, that pacemaker is saving your 'normal' life, and probably all our arses."

"I know."

"Look, I'd have done the same thing, if I had a way.  Anyone would."

"Thank you, I try to see it that way."

"We'd just say, 'make it so' and save whoever.  Who we love.  I don't blame him for going to extremes, is what I'm saying.  You just do whatever will -- uhm.  Save the life."  John takes a long breath through his nose.  Their talk is starting to hurt between the eyes.  _Jesus.  Enough._  

"That, right there, is what he appreciates so much about you.  I regret you don't have more contact," Alex remarks.  He looks down at the fireplace, as if willing it to light up.  "Please don't tell.  About -- what you _believe to be true_."

"It's -- yeah.  I won't.  I know."

"Sherlock's and your record was involved, in the process.  I cannot explain more.  In fact, I should not say a word more."

"Don't have to.  I've got our papers, anyhow.  I don't care, like I said."

"He -- " Alex implies Sherlock.  "Will.  Most IPs will never show any changes beyond those he mentioned, though.  And 'Gerald Albert' is quite fine."

"What should it be.  George, right?" 

"George Adalbert."

"Ah, right.  Well.  Uhm.  Congratulations, on.  It."

Alex had not been prepared to hear that, from anyone.  

Meanwhile, John is looking at his reaction curiously.  "Couple years too late?"

"Thank you.  I'd like to rest for a while," Alex tells him.

John leads Alex by the back to the bedroom.  "Sherlock's weighing the hives, or something, don't look up.  We'll call you out for dinner, take it easy."

Alex calms himself with some difficulty.  He emerges nearly an hour later for a risotto and the cutlets that he'd watched Sherlock tenderise with a bit too much enthusiasm, earlier on.  (They'd got 'a hammering', he wishes he could say.)  

He is about to put down a final thought for the day in his new journal but finds himself "pleasantly diverted" and addresses his friends instead, who are kissing more and more forgetfully in the kitchen nearby, "Gentlemen, I've no idea why you don't have a proper sofa instead of all those books and that small table over there, unless it's got a recreational purpose I cannot see."

John snorts.  "You're right."

"No need," Sherlock remarks, delighting in John's warm hand at his back.

"And Sherlock wants his shirt, John, look at him," Alex says, sighing.  Sherlock tries to frown.  "Just a moment, I'll bring it out, shall I?"


	6. Sherlock's tort

Alex takes care not to leave his new journal for perusal on the table, given his experience with the distance-reading talents of the elder Holmes.  "Ah, what about your tort, dear?  Did it even arrive?" He heads for the bedroom with a yawn, to dig for the second silk shirt in his suitcase bag.

"Uhm.  But we're turning in soon," John informs Sherlock.

"Are you?" Sherlock asks, mainly to wind up John all the more.

John leans in for a kiss, feels some impatience from Sherlock, and finally asks, "What tort, then.  We need a tort?  For him?  He -- doesn't eat --"

"Arrived an hour and half ago, to be served shortly, soldier, fall in.  Plates would do, mm?"

"What?" John had not noticed anyone approaching Sherlock at his hives, outdoors.  He is not pleased.  In fact, his chest is tingling with adrenaline at the idea. _Stop this._  

"There is still a semi-navigable hole in our fence, as you may have noticed," Sherlock replies, ducking out to the greenhouse. 

"Boys slinking about with cherry torts."  Alex is back, looking slinky himself, in nightclothes and a short, dark grey-green dressing gown with long kimono-like sleeves, lined in turquoise, from what is visible at his wrists.  Sherlock appears just afterwards, and narrows his eyes at the gown. 

_A memento of Tokyo, for your travels only.  Nnngh.  He gave you that._

"Oh, nice.  Looks expensive," John remarks.

"Sentiment," Sherlock growls, just before he realises John is indicating the ridiculously pretty, cherry-topped, truffle dusted confection in a box with reflective gold cardboard sides, and not the kimono.  

It reeks of rum.  John licks his lips.  "Oh.  There's an occasion?"

"Lovely," Alex declares.  "Well.  I think it's about time for me, thank you, good night.  I just wanted to make a cup of tea --"

Sherlock indicates his armchair with a wave.  "Sit."

***

Sherlock has yet to try on his shirt for John; as he'd expected (not to say _hoped_ ), Alex is showing signs of tipsiness, possibly even pliancy, after a single slice of the frankly decadent dessert.  He is seated across from John at the fireside.  The conversation, under the influence of the paper packet in the kitchen, has drifted rather quickly to Frederick.  "These," Alex sighs, referring to the silk pyjama trousers he is wearing, "have a long sash inside from one ankle up to the hip, around the waist, down the other leg.  A bit of a running joke because I never let anyone -- well.  Reasons.  I'm sorry.  I don't care for being measured."

"Kipton Street, 1934, a misunderstanding over measurements led to the fatal stabbing of a well-known tailor, Vernon Peterson, Senior," Sherlock mumbles, from the table.  "Eat, John."

"Yeah?" John chews and gulps the last of his second piece of tort.  "Does he ever bother you, or -- touch you?" he asks Alex, mainly for reconnaissance purposes of his own.  Sherlock frowns.

"Frederick?  No.  He dearly loves what he does," the artist replies, eyes rather too dilated given the context, as Sherlock is pleased to note.  "Mmm."

"Huh, and would like to keep doing it," John chuckles and then straightens his face.  "What's the matter?"

Alex clears his throat.  "What is in this chocolate?"

"Uhm.  Rum, I guess.  Feeling it?" 

"Oh, Lord.  No wonder I'm -- talking like a harem girl -- that was not kind, either --" Alex puts his hand over his mouth.  "I'm so allergic to alcohol, it's awful."

"What?"

"What were we talking about?  Oh...my...clothes.  Sorry."

"I guess, clothes are -- part of, I mean."  _Shit._   "The shirts, you know, those are -- "

"Masterpieces, all!" Alex states, nodding.  He curls his arm around his knees.  "Sorry."  The artist may as well be apologising for flashing his ankles, which in the company of the elder Holmes would mean far more; John, however, is more intrigued by the smoothness of his skin (-- _does he actually --_ ) before turning his mind to the ties in the seams of the pyjama.

 _Jesus, never mind._   The kimono robe gives no respite, either.  "No, they are, as clothes go, I mean.  They're master --"

"Oh...ha.  Sherlock?  Take this plate, please?" Alex pleads before giggling. 

" -- Pieces.  You going to be all right?" John asks.  "Uh.  This is potent.  I'm out of form.  Love, you're not drugging us?"

"I dare say, doctor, you're in form."  Alex wipes at the corners of his eyes.  "Ha.  Ah.  Could I trouble you for herbal tea?  I should have something warm.  Chamomile is fine."

"No," Sherlock says.  "Not with Warfarin."

"Chamomile.  Sorry."

"Won't matter."  John turns at the waist and waits for Sherlock to actually look at him.  "Nice, but I wanted you anyway," he hisses.

"And he's apologising for his thoughts," Sherlock mutters, but cannot stop grinning.

"So should you," John says, shaking his head.  "I'm the one his -- your brother -- "

"Why.  Should.  I." 

"Go try on your shirt, beautiful.  Hmm.  Yeah, let's see what we've got."  John pauses awkwardly, then stands and looks down at Alex.  "Uh.  Coming?"

"I'll wait here."  Alex glances over at Sherlock with wide eyes:  _do not mortify your....oh, so help me...._  

Alex's elder relations had raised him to worry for all parties present, lest any forget themselves; shortly he finds himself unable to pinpoint where his cares might best be allotted.  May it be said (in his defence, though he would never ask for it), that even a hundred-fifty hours of psycholinguistic training with MI5's best cannot equip a man to respond to the sight of England's greatest living detective-in-seclusion, in nothing more than a low-cut silk peasant blouse, which skims the endearing creases just beneath his luxuriant arse cheeks, and which brushes over the last of the soft little foreskin and invites one to consider the range of motion of thighs, in general -- "And that looks very nice, dear," the artist chokes, with a benevolent nod that does not match a panicky, forced glance upward at his best friend's self-satisfied face. 

Sherlock steps back into the kitchen, listening for sounds of teacup mishaps, which ultimately do not take place, behind him.  John, who is surprisingly quiet, takes him by the arm at the sink, but there is nothing punishing in that touch, whatsoever.  He looks Sherlock up and down, nods, and suddenly pulls him by the nape into what he knows is the hottest, wettest tonguing they've (knowingly) shared in front of anyone, ever.  It is beyond freeing, and he presses up against Sherlock's erection and backs that beautiful bottom out into the greenhouse, under plenty of kisses, switching a light off as he goes, and deposits his man at the chaise, where he eases him gently onto his back.  All in the interest of modesty, of course, though he is hard as hell, himself.   _God, you are impossible, love, good he's married, all I can say.  Can't say.  Fuck it._

Sherlock breaks a feverish kiss and whispers, "You knew."

He can hear that John is smiling in the dark.  "Knew what?"

"Mmm.  That _Alex_ doesn't mind, John," Sherlock murmurs, though that is not what he'd set out to say.

"Not like I didn't know.  That you.  Uhm, don't mind, either.  Who sees."  _I'm not stupid, not like I don't have a chance to think, out here._ "You're not showing more, though, all right?  You're mine.  You're -- ff, oh.  Good."  John leans down for more kisses as Sherlock reaches between their thighs to rub John off through his pants.

"Shhh."

"I don't need -- hnn -- rum -- to make me want -- this.  Oh my God, yes, that.  Fuck, yeah, mmmm.  Blankets.  Hmm, good.  Oh, yeah.  I don't need much, love."

"John, I love you," Sherlock whispers, hands trembling.  He is so hard he ruts up against John's arse.

"Stop a second, hnn.  Slow down.  You.  Are.  The most beautiful thing in my whole life," John whispers, pulling his shirt and jeans off with a grunt.  "Want you to know that."  He yanks his pants down and palms himself.

"I know that.  Now what do you really need, soldier?" Sherlock asks, grasping John's hips and sliding his own back down the chaise suggestively.

"-- Your mouth, so bad.  Hnnng, God, you."

"Then have it," Sherlock tells him, and swallows John whole.

Alex, still in Sherlock's armchair, drinks the last of his tea in the company of shadows -- beautiful ones, of men in love, who are kissing sloppily and grinding breathily in the darkness behind glass, and the arched back of their mournfully-creaking chaise longue.  

They dearly need that sofa, he thinks, and he desperately needs a toilet.  As he stands and makes his way dizzily to the bathroom, stomach cramping, he is more than certain that Sherlock's officer has always been the brightest of them all.  

***

At the sound of his car, Mycroft has emerged from his front door.  He has been home for a restless hour, still a jacket away from being dressed for palatial teatime, though he considers his work day finished (aside from obligatory reading).  He is quick to reach for Alex's suitcase bag, which the driver, Rodney, has brought to the doorstep with a nod at Alex's word of thanks. 

"And that will be all.  At eleven, then," Mycroft confirms, turning his eyes to Alex, who shall not be driven home to Great Peter Street until the following day, after brunch.  "It's let up," he remarks, referring to a momentary pause in the rain.  He steps aside.  "Allow me," he says, after shutting them in.

"Thank you."  Alex bites his lips as Mycroft removes his coat and a tweed jacket from his shoulders; he still needs a moment to shake off the mood left by the formalities in Cambridge, Alex sees.  While pulling loose a blue scarf, he smiles.  "Darling, now that I'm here, I hardly know where to kiss you first."

"This atmospheric foyer," Mycroft tells him.

"It's bad luck to kiss at thresholds."

"Say those who have not, presumably," Mycroft replies, a heavy gaze roving over Alex's slim neck. 

Alex, eyes shining, backs playfully into the expanse of Mycroft's living room and tosses his scarf at the sofa behind him. 

"Ah, you'll mind the corner of the table, near your -- thigh, yes," Mycroft remarks.

"Fine snuggery, Mr. Holmes.  You wouldn't imagine how much I've thought of kissing you, all over."

"I did little else."  _Exaggeration, until one considers the silence of the last few evenings._   Mycroft finds he can only follow, and steps forward.  

"Really?" Alex asks, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's shoulders once he is close enough.  Their first kiss is the smallest brush of lips, a bit of laughter, and relief at the familiar.  The second is long and Mycroft's hands close over Alex's back as the artist grasps at Mycroft's sleeves.  Each is longer and wetter, until they are breathing hard and pulling at each other's clothes, looking for contact. 

"Not in here," Mycroft reminds himself, and possibly Alex were he listening, when half of the elder Holmes' chest is exposed and his neck is being covered in hungry kisses. His tie has already been stuffed partly into his pocket -- where Alex is now running a hand over him.  "Gladys will arrive in less than forty minutes.  Come.  Upstairs.  Yes.  Ah, now, take care."

It is a struggle to ascend all the steps in a sensible way, while stealing so many kisses.  Alex is not fully coherent but tries bravely for 'communicative'.  "You must have been very busy, though?  Mmm, kitty, too many stairs."

"I was."  Mycroft holds Alex's waist, fingertips wandering, and delivers him to his large bed, where he dexterously pulls off his own trousers and then the artist's one-handedly, finding a pair of loose-legged, dark blue silk pants he has not yet seen.  They seem to cross over in front and fasten to the side, at the hip, and with his eyes he dares them to resist his fingers.  They might, yet.  He reaches for the tie and admires it, pulling at it experimentally before frowning comically, and remarking, "Indeed, forsaken for the Brazilian."

"Never.  He only dresses me," Alex answers. 

Mycroft stares -- at first rather darkly, not caring for the flash of envy that he is now forced to hide, doubly.  He is being unreasonable, he concludes, _dearly_ lacking blood in the brain.  He exhales slowly. 

"Kitty, hold me a little, I'll go off too quickly."

"And.  What more, in Eastbourne?"

"They're well, very well.  Happily married.  As ever.  It made me miss you all the more.  I was hoping you were all right." 

Mycroft blinks at what he would deem a flash of indecision, which has just passed though his lover's eyes.  He pauses and then replies, "Your absence was no less insufferable.  Moreover, no concessions reached, in Cambridge."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, kitty.  I suppose they'll return it all to the committees again?  Mm, like you'd said they would.  Well, they weren't prepared for refusal, were they."

"No." 

Mycroft compares the tells as Alex continues,  "Oh!  And I broke in that beautiful book from you.  From Florence?  I'd love to go there, someday.  A gorgeous blue, quite similar, actually, to...hmm?  What, darling?"

Mycroft's eyes have defocused in that peculiar way they do, when he is struggling most with a choice of wording. _How good you are here, again.  Your softness._  "No.  Go on."

"I needed the distraction.  They're so in love."

Mycroft raises a brow at that.  "Prominently displayed." 

Alex giggles in assent.  He is curled prettily, ankles crossed, and has propped his neck and shoulders against a large blue pillow.

"Your presence," Mycroft suggests, leaning down to touch his nose and lips to Alex's throat, "cannot have been unrelated."

"I don't think they -- oh, darling, that's lovely.  I don't think my presence -- mattered, particularly, oh...."

"Of course they would turn to each other all the more," Mycroft says, and lolls his tongue lightly over Alex's collarbone.   He fingers a nipple gently through the fabric of a pale blue shirt which is politely falling aside, and Alex's encouragements precede a long, slow row of kisses downward.  Mycroft slides a hand under Alex's arse and pokes his tongue deep into the artist's navel, licking kisses into the skin around it before turning his attention to the silky puzzle below it.  "But what is on your mind, little one," he asks.

"Mmmm.  You."

"And."  Mycroft fondles the tied silk on his lover's hip, once more.

"You know, John inferred, that we're married.  From -- " Alex gestures at his chest. 

"Ah."

"And he will keep it to himself, I'm sure he will."

"Of course." 

Alex ignores, or has not caught the ambiguity in that.  "The record was actually how it started, kitty, because your brother saw the changes to my name, after your -- uncle?  Well."

"What else.  What is it," Mycroft says, keeping his voice steady with some effort.

"In fact, John congratulated me.  Us."

Mycroft withdraws his hands from Alex and props himself up on one elbow.  He sighs and nods.

"I wanted to pass that on."

"Yes."

"I was quite touched.  That's been so -- well."

Mycroft's brows furrow.  "Have I deprived you of something?"

"Nnno --" Alex's mind blanks.  "I -- cannot put it into words."

"You mean you cannot cloak it in gentle terms."

"Kitty." 

"Alexander,"  Mycroft answers,  "secrecy has been a considerable burden, to us both.  I see your conversation with John disturbed you for several reasons.  May I remind you, that in the event of my death or incapacitation, there are measures.  Have I not told you?"

"No.  I don't know the particulars, but I don't doubt you've -- darling, no more about this, please, not here, I cannot think."

Mycroft nods and swallows.  He has let his nerves get the better of him -- at the news, he tells himself.   _Enough_.  "Not here."

"Have you ever imagined how I'd kiss you, Mycroft?"

"I have."

"So think of it...think of it, that's it.  You have the most beautiful, naughty smile ever.  Darling, come here.  Mmmm.  Shall I show you how to open -- oh Lord, you are gorgeous."

"Open your legs, and we might leave these?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appending this to chapter, for johnlockdoesntalarmme and iriswallpaper:  
> 


	7. Plurals

It is not the first or even hundredth time John has come home from work to see Sherlock in precisely the same position as he'd been after breakfast.  This is not a sulk, however -- he is working on several new series of stress-ageing experiments for the same consumer-testing laboratory he has freelanced with on and off, over the last three and a half years. (And blessed are they, thinks John.) 

What John cannot discern, teacups having been cleared and washed, is that Sherlock has also had a visitor, a retired Detective Inspector from Brighton, formerly London, named Michael Moore. Although they'd never officially worked together, they've known _of_ each other for some time, as they share a certain hobby.  That morning they'd finally had occasion to meet in person, when Moore had shown up at the gate with a few papers in a folder and a fresh packet of cigarettes visible in his chest pocket.

Sherlock had showered after smoking eight of them.  He does not know how to tell John about his guest, though he is so pleased he can hardly contain himself.  It will make for a suspicious change of mood, back from a rather embarrassing crash following Alex's departure to London.  He'd not controlled that well enough. He misses his friend, mainly his accepting nature, which he superimposes over uneasiness about Mycroft's sustained silences. 

_Alex fills silences well.  So does John._

"Have you been smoking, love?"

 _John usually fills silences well.  Hell._   Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "Yyyyes."

"You left one by the gate.  It was from today, for sure, because it wasn't rained on."

"Oh.  No-shows?"

"Yeah, the last two, but had to wait them out.  Do I look that bored?" John smiles.

"Yup," Sherlock replies, returning John's toothy smile.  He looks fantastic to John.  Beaming.  He'll take beaming.

"Now what are you up to," John mumbles.  "Baked -- turkey?"

"Duck."

"Duck?"

"Goose."

"Sorry?" John is on his way to the bathroom.

"Warm it."

"Going to want any?" John asks, leaning out the door before scrubbing his hands vigorously. 

"No."

"Right.  A small piece, then, one potato?"

"Mmm."

"What's on.  You have the look."  John is back.

"Which one," Sherlock answers, hopefully.   _Mmmm, my John_.

"The 'something I put in the duck' look."

"What are you implying?"

"You.  I don't know, you're -- up to something again, but you're looking -- good.  Very."  John licks his lips.  "You know, I come home, and see this, how you are, and.  Uhm.  I love you."  _Talk, idiot._ "I mean, you look -- lively."  _Jesus._

Sherlock bites back a reply.  John seems to have seen that, too, and comes over to hug his head against his stomach.  He cards a warm hand through Sherlock's hair; when he leans down to put his lips in it he gets pulled into a kiss faster than he can catch up.  Which is the point.  "G - od...."

"Duck," Sherlock breathes.  "Later, you." 

John hums, "Hmm. Got that straightened out, good.  Beautiful."  He puts a few more kisses on Sherlock's crown and pets him _._   "You know, I think we actually do need some kind of sofa. Really."

"True."

"Not for looks, I mean, like, one where someone can sleep, or not just -- sleep.  Leather?  Maybe?"

"Mhm."

"Soft, though.  I'd hold you hard so you wouldn't slip off, or anything.  Vice-versa.  Hmm?  Something easy on the knees, too, but not too much give, you know."

"Yes."

"Dark grey, maybe not black, something that would sort of -- heh -- 'tie the room together'.  Nah, I mean, just not black.  It could be a fold-out thing?  For guests.  In wintertime, or."

"Plural!"

"If -- yeah.  Plural."

"Which _plural_ ," Sherlock says, showing too much tooth.

"Guest-s-- we have a party, say?  And the road's washed out."

"The likelihood --"

"So we're putting plural people up.  We don't even have a lilo.  Should do, if it keeps raining.  Yeah, so, maybe sometimes we could sleep in here, too, if we want, or if one of us has a cold, or, I don't know."

"Ergo, you'd buy a sofa for the unlikely event of a water landing by my brother, and my friend, at the same time.  Nnnngh, nnno."

"We need a sofa," John says, "because the floor creaks, and I'm forty-sodding-something years old but not for long.  And if they were to show up, I'd put them up.  Doesn't have to be in our bed, the chaise won't do, but I'd put them up for as long as _they_ wanted to be here."  _Fucking married, for fuck's sake, love, this is getting -- stupid.  And fuck, you're hot._

"John, perish the thought for the good of --"

"I'm thinking about inviting them both, for a Christmas thing or New Year's.  Sherlock."

"John!"  Sherlock slams his open hand on the tabletop next to him, hard enough for satisfying, multi-pitched clattering.

"Not saying they'd even come.  Hey.  Easy."

"No." 

"It's in three months, a _quarter of a year_.  Just saying." John growls.  "We're getting a sofa, you're going to fuck me good, there, and then I'll make sure it's your favourite place in this bloody house.  And sometime, heh, maybe, we'll put someone up.  Plan where you want to move those books and the table."

"Duck, soldier."  Sherlock waits for John to cool off a bit.  He adds, "And as it happens, I already have several photographs of viable sofas, to ease the selection process."  (This is a curt summary of Alex's declarations:  "Oh my God, and for shagging, dear, there can be no other than this one, he'd throw you onto it in a second."  Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Alex had been describing the virtues of Mycroft's fireside sofa.)

"That works," John mumbles.  "Good, love."

***

"Ginger kitty," Alex says over breakfast, just before sending a text. "Last chance.  If you want me to accompany you to the council sitting, I'll go dress.  Do you need me along, there, or?"

Mycroft does; however, his mind has turned to a rumour concerning himself and the courteous 'secretary' who is seen note-taking mutely in his company.  Granted, he might better manipulate the contact a given group has with his -- (he blinks and shakes his head).

"Oh.  All right.  Well, I'm looking forward to this shoot.  The girls will have woven textiles from Tibet, of all sorts.  I wanted to do some studies of them while they're waiting for him," Alex apparently feels he must explain.  He need not. He has been invited to watch part of a session by Carlton Parsons -- his former lover, a scruffy-cheeked star among England's photojournalists, laureate of no fewer than five internationally-recognisable awards for his reflexes, not to say his impulses.  (" _Mentioning those does no man honour_ ", as one might phrase things.) 

When Mycroft had only just introduced Alexander to his milieu, cautiously, ending months of longing for a sensible end to a troubling drought in his emotional life, and once the artist had become almost unbearably intimate with him, the impulsive "Carly" Parsons had descended on London (read:  Alex), ending nine years of silence that had corroded Alex's self-confidence. In hindsight, the timing feels worthy of a cabaret, and simply put, should the photo-j ever "forget himself" again, Mycroft's threat to flatten the man's career still stands.  They all know it.  Mycroft would be first to admit that his methods are 'caricatures', however; it hadn't taken much pressure to obtain his ends -- key photographs as collateral -- including hundreds of Alexander -- for a suspended indictment (Carly had obstructed an investigation, by refusing to hand over a dozen or so crucial, incidentally-captured images).  And, for Carly's compliance in certain matters, the elder Holmes has been able to hand the photographer several unique opportunities, including a fascinating assignment in Chile.  The man is also tolerated as juror of _F8 &C_, a foundation organising photo exhibits of growing prestige and controversy, where Alexander holds a symbolic role as patron. 

The photographer takes up "clothing shoots", for money, using his name and selective portfolio to promote ethical sourcing and fair trade labour; he presently works in a shared loft and treads water, mainly.  Yet there is a second bottom, or Mycroft would not bother:  Carly unwittingly attracts people of interest, meaning potentially useful to know (of).  It is a subtle feature of an otherwise dull personality, and perhaps the very thing, aside from prodigious talents in foreplay, that once wound his Alexander -- admirer of 'adrenaline-by-proxy' -- so tightly around him.

Alex has just set down his teacup, jolting Mycroft back.  "I had such delicious dreams about you."  The artist's eyes run over Mycroft and brighten, with love.  "True, I shouldn't go with you, or I might act on one."

"Which?" Mycroft asks, a small smile of satisfaction on his lips.  He presses a folded serviette over them and puts it aside.  He turns to stand from his chair but Alex is quicker, and receives him in his arms for a marmalade-tinged kiss that lasts long enough to make Mycroft catch a breath through his nose, then open his mouth to it.

Alex stops just far away enough from Mycroft''s face to answer, "The one where I pull open my -- well, no.  Or, maybe, since they've been discussing no-confidence votes...?  Mmm?"

Mycroft kisses Alex back, once.  He remarks, "At the very least, there would be grounds for discussion.  Upstairs, little dove," he says, his hand brushing down Alex's lower back to his arse, which he pats. "Dress for sketching materials, in the presence of admirers."

"When you know I have a horror of crowds," Alex replies, posing for a moment before melting into an attack of laughter, back to his most natural element.  He ambles off in the direction of Mycroft's staircase.  "Why don't you come see how I dress, for a certain admirer?"

"Alexander, I have fourteen minutes."  Mycroft straightens his back.  "Tonight," he says, wishing to push his discomfort aside, rather literally.  Alex has just caught sight of it, for sure.  "Apologies.  Please, go upstairs."

Alex takes care to hold the front of his dressing gown as he ascends.  His calves and ankles, Mycroft believes, could have inspired treasons and poisonings, and lonesome warriors' ballads -- as would his slim thighs.  He takes his own pleasure between them, some evenings, stroking the artist's knees or reaching over his hip to roll the rosy shroud of foreskin back and over his cockhead slowly, with his thumb, stroking him in his palm.  _Kitty, please, dearest kitty, it's perfect.  Perfect --_

Mycroft rubs the lower half of his face.  Rumour has it that the 'secretary' (who out of necessity is choosing a fitted shirt -- _likely the azure_ \-- from Mycroft's wardrobe that very moment) works for MI5 and is being trained, of all things, to replace _him_ in certain capacities. 

 _Sherlock would doubtlessly laugh for hours -- that is, if he still had his sense of irony about him.  Ever._  

The implications, and Mycroft senses dozens, have him sleeping poorly, again.  Proof has just arrived, in splitting yawns, one after the next, as he strides, eyes watering, to the back window to gaze out at his -- _Alexander's_ \-- garden.  It will need seasonal tidying and thinning, now that the nights are colder; he loses about three minutes to memories of leading the artist by the arm, and a cutting refusal he might have worded far better.   _I might have worded many things differently, brother._

The artist is already toeing back downstairs in jeans and tweed, a _white_ shirt, loose at the collar thus left unbuttoned, and his current favourite blue patterned scarf, the mad paisley, which Mycroft puts a hand out to straighten, once Alex has joined him at the window.  "Shoreditch.  Where does one start," Mycroft muses, eyes slicing through the fringe of the scarf.  "Avoid photographers."

"Ha ha!  I shall avoid pop-ups and cafes requiring chest-length beards."  Alex's eyes take in the last of the flowers.  "Pretty.  Oh, I see some more yellow leaves, mm.  It's going to be sunny...I should have my -- my -- eh--"

"Glasses, and they're in your coat.  A2 today," Mycroft says, referring the the second of "the Anthonies" who are Alex's constant companions when he is out.  "Take --"  _Fluids but absolutely no tap water, you should not touch the furnishings and clothes displayed on the pavements, avoid Columbia Street until after one, no food markets of any sort, may Mr. Parsons keep two arms' length between you; stand away from the cables --_ "-- care.  Your pencils and whatnot are in your bag, by the door.  Come."

"Is that where they've gone?  Thank you --"  Alex puts up an arm.  Once he has slipped into his coat, which is being held up for him, he buttons about half of it and tips his face forward to rub his nose against Mycroft's warm cheek.  "I'm so in love with you, Mr. Holmes," he whispers, and nips his man's right earlobe between his lips.  "See me tonight."


	8. Not singlehandedly

Sherlock engages in crime-solving, rather indirectly (and that implies 'without John's wholehearted approval'), mainly by feeding small leads and tips to those who are able to pick up on them, while upholding deniability as to his involvement.  One such recipient is Michael Moore, who keeps up old contacts, and also hand-written ledgers of crime stats from 21 of the 44 forces in England and Wales, to stop himself smoking and drinking himself into a stupor.  He is keenest on opportunistic thefts and murders-for-theft, and his colour-coded, not-amateurish charting of domestic-dwelling crimes by people allowed on-site, such as hired workers, should be framed under glass, thinks Sherlock.  A map covered in blooms of iniquity.  After encountering each other's posts online and discovering how few miles separate them, Moore has been sending on trends in data that he thinks are interesting, and at least a fourth of the time, Sherlock is inclined to agree.  In that particular Moore has out-rated Lestrade, who has been suspiciously distant for months.  Moore calls their work "hunch plus crunch", which is annoying, but accurate enough.

This morning, Sherlock is pondering over details from a series of bludgeonings involving intoxicated victims (all with high blood alcohol at the time of death) and blows which suggest the use of two hands, by the same person.  Moore has unofficial access to a few photographs.  It is very little to go on, but enough to make paring beetroot far less tedious.  _Switching hands._ He does the same, and slices, circularly.  _Think.  Why.  Poor upper body strength, multiple blows needed, rheumatism.  An older person.  Old ills.  Resentments.  Old ills._   His name cannot be associated with police work, and he needs to make that clear to Moore.  That it is informal. No clear attribution. _None._ He and Mycroft uphold an arrangement which has become the most lasting of compromises between them in years.  This is perhaps less attributable to changes in Sherlock's attitude -- toward his own crime and his elder sibling's application of power to painful spots -- than to the bleakness of his alternatives.  Even while knowing what he is avoiding (for instance, close encounters with those he'd helped incarcerate _\-- which could be neat --_ as well as subordination), he often mistakes his boredom for nausea and fancies himself chomping an unfairly large bit.  Eastbourne is exile, which Sherlock would liken to being "disappeared" or nullified, for the sake of acting out a path of contrition, though he regrets little.  He thinks of it very little, though accessing his case memories for similar types of blows -- _by weak hands_ \-- has forced out other details, along the way.  _A hemodialysis patient, with an arteriovenous fistula in the dominant arm.  A person with carpal tunnel.  If premeditated, why a hammer, if it is difficult to wield.  Why the force of a hammer?_

When it mattered, in the days of detention following the 'Magnussen affair' (or however one calls it these days, because he doesn't call it anything), Mycroft had appeared several times, the first visit the most salient; he'd been uncharacteristically dressed down, and pale; in a rare display of genuine distress he had sworn he'd never allow Sherlock to be placed in a penitentiary.  He had made enquiries, searched legal precedents.  _A trial bypassed by calling upon clauses in the Mental Health Act and a contact in the Home Office, Sherlock, a quiet retreat in a closed facility to prevent unwanted interest, and not for long._ He'd explained that case work abroad under an assumed identity would be a respectable use of his skills, even where it could mean _death for honourable causes over incarceration_ should complications arise.  Mycroft had not ruled out corrective institutions, abroad.  In case of relapse, a dreaded plan of treatment in Sweden would be effective, at once.

Meanwhile, even the tabloids had been muted, mostly, to bring the perceived value of blackmail to a minimum -- an irony _thicker than blood,_ as Sherlock had flippantly remarked, apparently not caring to rest his thoughts on all that retouching.   It had not accounted for John:   it had been assumed he'd fall away.  This alleged, overarching "exclusion" (between brothers who have often prided themselves on detecting others' omissions) had created the worst stress fracture.  Meanwhile, Sherlock and John had found a way out of the impasse in each being "too important to lose" to the other, by admitting to their feelings.  As John has put it best, "Your love is really all I've got, and that's all right."

_And you see how wrong you were, about John. Ah. The bias of the friendless man...._

While not a novel remark from Sherlock, that one had lodged in softer tissues:  a factor of timing, coming just minutes prior to Alex's arrival at the _Diogenes_ for his fifth high tea, there -- a record of sorts in Mycroft's experience and one soon overwritten by unnumbered, secret firsts and lasts.  

Meanwhile, the "return" of the great detective from the dead had, paradoxically, allowed a rapid decline in internet-fuelled fame:  a myth restored to his human form.  _And then one may vanish again_.  Once the number of clients seeking Sherlock's advice had been matched -- and in some weeks overtaken -- by imposters (journalists and micro-bloggers, for their own stat-boosting or myth-making), he'd withdrawn, according to his part of the "agreement".  The Yard had undergone personnel shuffling.  In the mess, he'd gone quiet.  Few had taken notice, a fact that John still cannot accept, and which he uses his adventure writing to work through. 

Mycroft, satisfied that John would not tolerate high-risk cases, out of growing love and concern, and that he would willingly bind himself legally to Sherlock, had arranged what he considers a comfortable 'deportation' from London, for them.  He has never heard a word of thanks for it from Sherlock; only Alex knows how disappointing the lack of basic regard has become to him, given the risks and clumsy compromises it adds to his own career.  During a poorly-worded exchange, he'd admitted to the artist that were Sherlock's affairs left to the security committee _and_ upheld in their current form, he fancies he could disappear, in his brother's eyes.  He has been loath to repeat any variant of it since:  through rising hysteria and a furniture-endangering detonation of a rarely-freed temper, Alex had demanded a thorough revision with regard to family and honour.   _Mycroft Holmes, never allow yourself to stop caring for a minute, be ready should he ever change his mind, you can afford to uphold it all!  You will not refer to those 'resentments' any longer, I have told you:  they are no refuge for a man of your calibre, you must stop it, every chance you are given to do so.  Life is about love and service.  And you have more opportunities for this than most, aren't you fortunate!  And remember, you dear man, you are never alone in your cares, until you choose to disregard mine!  For just as mine are yours, yours are mine, and you shall not wish yourself gone from anyone's life!  Gracious Peter and Paul, how could you ever imagine such a horrid thing!  As though you longed for an end to your positive influence in so many spheres, to many people, in our great country, how dare you!_

(How, indeed.)

***

"You decide when and how to work, you follow your passion.  You are regarded as a person with conscience and vision."  Alex's excitement over materials and sketching has been undercut by a melancholy atmosphere in the studio loft, which is in total conflict with the idea of the session.  He is trying not to show his disappointment at it.

"Maybe."  Carly has just explained to Alex, while shoving equipment about with his feet, that he sees little sense in what he does, of late.  He laughs it off uncomfortably as soon as it has come out but there is too much strain in his features to allow Alex to smile along with him, so they both pretend that his tension has to do with the lateness of the make-up artist that morning or the gel that is not correcting enough yellow.  He will do yet another session by rote, knowing his pictures will be _just good enough_ without meaning much to him.  He radiates urban loneliness which is no longer to his advantage, thinks Alex.

"What would you do if you did not have to earn a living anymore?" the artist asks, gently.  "Because you could start managing things very differently."

"I know."  Carly picks up a chipped wooden clipboard and shuffles through concept sheets.  "This.  I'd still be doing this.  Probably." 

Alex pulls his moleskine from his bag and wonders at a small, yellow sticky note inside the front cover.  It is blank.  "Good.  Do you need my help with anything here?"  He cocks an eyebrow and pulls the note off.  When he flips it over, he sees that Mycroft has pencilled exactly five words (meaning a summary) in cursive:   _In my most favoured thoughts._

"Nah, sit wherever you like.  Hey, are you all right, Lexie?  Sit, over by the back wall if you can.  Oh, the girls are -- I'll catch you in between.  Rube!  We're moving."  The photographer has rung his new assistant, a soft-waisted, unshaven student with large glasses and ruddy cheeks, Reuben, who appears in a doorway shortly after, having finished smoking a burgundy, plug-in cigar in a nearby corridor.  He wraps a plaid shirt around his middle as he toes over cables.  He has a large-format film camera on a tanned leather strap, worn buckle-in across his chest.  It bumps his ribs as he walks.  Alex winces as a text chimes in his pocket.  _Kitty, my kitty_.

 

_Bored.  3rd Sussex murder w/ hammer, ambidextrous killer.  You?  SH_

_It wasn't me, I swear.  Watching CAP work r.n.  Alex._

                _Today you have earned my pity sooner than usual.  SH_

                                _Riotous as ever...I miss you!  Alex_

_Maybe 2 hammers, 1 in each hand? ha ha  Alex_

No reply comes and the artist decides that Sherlock has either fallen asleep or drifted outdoors.  He drifts, too.  There are two girls whose profiles have caught his interest; he listens to Carly directing the first model and works out a girl's jaw and ear -- and a shoulder-length, tassel-like earring -- and just as he loses himself in a loop of braided hair at her nape, he hears:  "Never heard of intellectual property?"

Alex raises his eyes and tries to pull his thoughts together, again.  Reuben appears to want an introduction, or something of the sort.  "Good morning," Alex says, standing from his seat and glancing over his shoulder at Carly, who is talking incessantly as a model wrapped in a striped, hand-woven wool tunic takes several strides his direction, backs away, and turns while walking forward again.  The fabric is stiff, carpet-like, Carly claims, and he wants more motion.  "The light is for movement.  You will be the only movement," he explains, mainly to himself, "not what it should be, shit."

Alex blinks.  _Property._   "What appears to be the matter with intellectual property?"

"Like, copyright?"  Reuben adds.

Alex finds he cannot catch the point.  He looks at Reuben for long enough that the photographer makes an impatient sound with his tongue.  "I am -- not creating a derivative work," Alex states, closing his moleskine over a finger.  "Honestly, I don't see where the intellectual property is, which is being violated, here."

"Are you joking?  Are these your clothes we're shooting here?"

"No, but I would have to be working from an original artwork of yours to violate _your_ property rights.  And should the producer of these tassels have anything against a sketch of an ear for my own --"

"Sure.  It's also about our lighting, our set up, our time, our space, mate."

"Oh," Alex says. "Where Mr. Parsons will start taking photographs, shortly."

"What are you actually doing here, may I ask?"

"Sketching the models.  And I understand that you are assisting Mr. Parsons." 

Said Parsons, with characteristic lightfootedness, appears at Alex's side.  "What's this about?  Hey.  We're moving the lights, Rube.  Now."

Reuben gestures at Alex's notebook.  "He paid for that model?  I don't think so.  Why is he in here?"

"What?" Carly is holding his camera at the hip, all adrenaline. 

Alex finds he cannot smile, yet again.  "Carly, there's no issue, let it go.  Sir, I'd no intention of -- intruding."

"Intruding," Carly grunts.  "Don't even explain anything."

Reuben seems to be taking part in a completely different exchange.  He shrugs as though the matter of artistic incursion has been confirmed.  "So.  We don't just take, or do we," the photographer growls, grasps his heavy film camera and fires it rudely in Alex's face; the flash is blinding; Carly spits several unrepeatable insults.  Alex turns away and considers how best to control his own outrage; foremost, he settles on thoughts of how glad he is that he'd asked the guard, Anthony, to stay by the doors on the ground floor.  Some of the models, he knows, have taken notice (and likely snapshots; he can hear them giggling), having little else to do while standing about in the rare textiles, trying not break a sweat.  He shall not, either.  There is click followed by a small metallic hiss:  it is the slide plate being removed, followed by a roll film cartridge.  A hot arm curls around his shoulder.  "Lexie, are you okay?" he hears, very close to his ear.

"Of course," Alex answers in a whisper, though he is dizzy.  "Perhaps I do not understand your work protocols."  He cannot keep the irony out of his voice; he rubs his eyes; his field of vision is still blocked by flickering green and blue spots. 

"I forgot to tell him.  You've been perfect.  And don't go home, okay?  He's actually normal.  Usually.  I don't -- uhm, no.  I -- shit, I'm so tired of the -- the ego, here.  This.  _Fuck_.  So much of this --"

"Perceived paucity in the world, as though there were no space for us all to flourish, that I might steal someone's light when it comes from so far," Alex blurts, exasperated that his hands are shaking as much as they are.  "This is no war, and yet we behave like scavengers picking at outcomes -- I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm talking about." 

"Yeah you do, that there's -- like, not enough for everyone, they think, like if you see something new, in the same place, you're a threat, because you might sell for more, to someone better.  I know, that's basically my career in one sentence.  So sick of it, these people."

"There's far more to it, fortunately.  Calm down, please, don't throw him out, perhaps there is more than meets the eye, with him, too?  Please?"

"Yeah.  Look, just go sit down, okay?"  Carly turns on Reuben next, who cannot seem to find a single activity for his hands.  He closes the distance between them, teeth bared.  "And I was _about_ to introduce you to the founder of _F8 &C_, and one of Tate Modern's honorary curatorial advisers, Rube," he snaps.

"Oh my God, look, I -- "

"Listen to me now, before I _do something else I'll regret, like I regret that I took you on at all and believed in you._ "

"Uhhh.  I am.  So.  Sorry."

"Sorry you strobed _his_ eyes, yeah?  His eyes."

"I was just -- I thought he was work -- was working -- for someone else, or." 

" _Anyone's_ eyes!  _The fuck_."

"Parsons, I thought he was with a -- one of the papers, I swear." 

"If you're going to dick around, start hoping people _don't ever_ notice you."  (Carlton Parsons has unique experiences concerning "being noted" by powers that few in England know exist.  He is presently too heated to think that far ahead, but in a few minutes he certainly will.)

"Sorry." 

"And there's Instagram.  Waiting for you, all the time.  I'd throw you out right now, but."

Several of the models nearby snicker.  Reuben shuts his eyes and shakes his head.  "No, no.  I am so sorry."

"You're on my clock today.  Move."

The matter of allowing Reuben Wright's reputation to wither among peers, a handful of models, artists and activists is far easier than removing a photograph from Twitter, of Alex tucked against Parson's shoulder. 

What will be far more interesting to Mycroft, another day, is that Wright's true first name is Ruslan. 


	9. Well aware

A death has been attributed to the rupture of the thoracic aorta during a 'routine' pacemaker adjustment via catheter, and Mycroft is one of the first to have received a personal communication from a researcher in Canada on the case.  He races through the text once more. The deceased patient is his own age, and the fourth-oldest among the handful in Europe and parts of Canada who have received a tiny, experimental pacing device like the one lodged in Alex's right ventricle.  (Alex's differs in that it also includes a chip -- in case of a need for positive identification; Mycroft has not mentioned its existence, due to some of the data it contains, and he considers it nearly as troubling a move as the forging of their marriage, so will not think more of it, now.)  While this is the first fatal event involving the placement of this type of pacer and appears attributable to a predisposition for arterial dissection, it has set off myriad concerns and the researchers will certainly be revising indications. They will, most likely, need to interview Alex in the near future.  The avalanche of thoughts on this, on top of several new security matters, has become difficult to pinch off. Mycroft should do so, quickly.  _Must_.  He stands from his desk; his back would insist on upholding the unnatural angle of his chair, and he rubs at himself peevishly. _Enough._     

His Alexander is expected in fifteen short minutes.  They will discuss one matter in these secure quarters, after which they will go home together -- for an evening topped off with honey cakes, at the very least.  He plans to send the cook on her way immediately after supper, and enjoy Alex's lips at the fire.  The artist has been at a meeting surrounding an exhibit ( _the exhibit_ ) including several of Alex's own drawings, which are returning to the Tate Britain after a long tour abroad.  He will be distracted, as he has been for several days, which 'for reasons', as he puts it, he refuses to acknowledge in plain words.  He needn't; Mycroft is in possession of key facts already but has several points to resolve before he feels they can re-approach each other, as intimately as he would like. 

He is increasingly annoyed at his own restlessness -- again, his mind has wandered:  _unanticipated localised weakness, the rupture was sudden.  Must we tell him?_  With that looping through his thoughts, he closes the message from the Canadian and opens a picture file -- _the_ photograph of interest.  He stands over it, hands at his hips.

_A word from you, concerning -- if you'd be so kind.  As you always are, to where I find I cannot spare you, anything.  Nor -- to -- anyone else, and here we are once more.  A word from you concerning Mr. Parson's behaviour.  The placement of the hand._

Mercifully, a signal arrives from Rodney; the car will be early.  As Mycroft finishes parsing the notion of 'merciful' news, Alex enters the _Diogenes_.  He is soberly dressed in a midnight blue suit, expression and manners remote, even for the benefit of men who shall not look at him.  He should not have to tap a single finger, thinks Mycroft, and opens the door just as the artist raises his hand to knock on it.  "Good afternoon, come," he says, simply.

Once they are closed in together, Alex's entire face softens.  _As the stars blink through light cloud cover_ , the elder Holmes thinks, recalling his own boorish remark on a certain terrace, barked at this very man, in resistance.  _What has changed, little one?_ The artist, then and now, has sought relief from crowds, in _his_ presence. 

Alex's voice breaks through:  "So, are you ready to go?  You know what?  There is something in your car that smells delicious.  Gingerbread, perhaps?  Lovely, anyhow.  Thank you.  Because Rodney said it was for me but not to look at it, yet.  Actually, I didn't even want to leave it there."

Mycroft watches him, still unable to connect fully _._   "Yet you were persuaded," he concludes, knowing he has done nothing to make himself half as inviting.

Alex folds his thin hands one on the other at his waist, and replies, "Because I trust Rodney's self-control better than my own.  Darling, don't look so cross, I was only joking.  So, I was to come in, he said.  He's pulled round by the side entrance for us --"

"And we won't be long.  A word from you."

"About the meeting?  It was very much as you said it would be.  I cannot remember everything now, I wrote down when the drawings will be returned, there's a party -- "

"With regard to Mr. Parson's recent behaviour," Mycroft says, folding his arms.  "And what prompted it." 

"But is he all right?" Alex asks, his fingers digging into his palms.

 _Ah._   "As far as I am aware, yes.  Have you reason to think otherwise?"

Alex glances away, arches a brow, unbuttons his suit jacket, and then explains, "Well, in fact, I only wondered, because Carly seems -- quite unhappy right now."

Mycroft takes an abrupt step toward his desk, where he turns his laptop to the side.  He raises his chin expectantly at Alex, who has just been confronted with an image of himself taken three days before; he is standing close to his friend, his head seemingly against Carly's shoulder.  The photographer himself is slightly blurred, depicted frontally with a grimace on his lips that could be interpreted as a smile by someone who does not know him well.  His left hand is wrapped over the artist's nape.  (While Mycroft does not say it, this reflex of the former lover, laying a hand defensively in a _preferred_ place, needles him.)  "Explain the circumstances preceding this photograph," Mycroft says.  "If you'd be so kind."

Alex swallows and replies, "He was not to blame, here."

"His manner shows as much.  He appears protective, and I am the last person," Mycroft states, "who would disapprove, if he behaved reasonably.  Your anxiety these past days interests me more than the fact of this photograph, which was quickly removed from social media as well as the handset of the model who took it, of course," Mycroft replies. 

Alex clasps his hands tightly.  "Thank you.  Forgive me if it caused you any discomfort."

"Your safety and my comfort are, Alexander, inseparable."

"I know." 

"You are reluctant to show _me_ where I have failed.  Why is that."

"I -- well.  I can say that just prior to this situation, there was a misunderstanding with Carly's new assistant."  Alex bites at his lips.  "You're right.  You take care of everything so well, and I didn't want to agitate you, just because someone decided to get in my face and -- and fire a flash in my eyes, when Anthony was elsewhere --"

"A flash."

"A strobe, the old sort, in an aluminium shade." 

"At what range."

"A little more than an arm's length, perhaps.  Kitty, don't be like that.  And Carly felt partly responsible for not stopping it, though he couldn't have, really.  He also destroyed a roll of film just before.  And he held me up until I could see because there were a lot of electrical leads and chairs all around.  He doesn't know about -- this pacemaker, does he, and I don't know if I'm supposed to say anything, and I couldn't, not there, under the circumstances, kitty.  So he was afraid I'd have an attack of coughing and dizziness, like I used to, when -- I don't know what else to say."

Mycroft absorbs what he has heard and continues, "It was an assault and he knew it."  He has gone icy, retreating into his own calculations.

"I wouldn't read so much into it."  Alex's throat constricts as the randomness he'd taken for jealousy aligns otherwise.  _Gracious Mother.  I cannot even rule it out._   "As I told Carly, we might let it go?"

Mycroft presses his lips; Alex watches them; they become a thin, white line which suddenly breaks apart, and his even teeth are revealed; they nip down on his tongue; he releases the tip of it.  "What is unique to Mr. Parsons?  Consider."

"I."  Alex promises himself that he shall not lose his composure, even if they are meant to argue.  "Am not certain."

"He is the _only_ person, aside from trusted staff, my brother, or John Watson, with useful and current knowledge about your habits, your health, your cares, and the fact of an attachment between us."

"You're right," Alex says.  "And then there's also Nikita?" he suggests, "the hacker that Sherlock knows."

"Counted among 'trusted staff'."

"Okay.  But Carly doesn't know your first name, and doesn't ask a thing about you, not even the usual niceties."

"Is this where I show my delight?" Mycroft retorts.

Alex looks startled at that remark.   He nods.  "Yes, of course."

This naivety, as beguiling as it is infuriating, forces Mycroft to explain, coolly, "It has the appearance of a 'dry run', to see how easily you are approached.  This individual --"

"His name is Reuben Wright, dear."

Mycroft shakes his head.  "-- Ruslan Chokajov -- has made the acquaintance of Mr. Parsons," Mycroft answers.  "That requires observation, most importantly.  Alexander, you know the methods, you've seen it on paper numerous times.  The true object of these efforts, such as they are, is not yet clear.  I have theories but you'll forgive me if I do not share them, as they are incomplete."

Alex turns his head away, his breath uncomfortably shallow.  "Why a false name.  Oh, dear."

"How did he approach you?" Mycroft asks.  

"You've seen his photos, I suppose.  He looks like a student, a bit out of training, stubble, a hipster type like many of the boys who take pictures, sort of breaking into the profession, they tend to style themselves to make an impression, or just to disappear, you know.  Well.  He was smoking one of those long, steaming electronic cigarettes, with a cherry scent, awful, then came back in, and when he saw I was there near a model, he came over and mentioned copyright violations, or no, intellectual property issues, which didn't make sense.  I tried to point that out to him.  Then he changed his tone, that I shouldn't be there, that I'd not paid for the models' time myself, fair enough, he didn't know me -- ?" Alex rambles.  "Did he?  Later after that flash, he told Carly that he'd thought I was a journalist."  Alex covers his nose, which has started running, even in the absence of tears.  "Ech." 

"What did he say before he strobed you."   

"Excuse this.  He said something like 'we don't just take'."

"Did it not sound practised to you?"

"I have no ear for that sort of thing.  But he -- oh, he did stammer when he was upset."

"He showed himself to be confrontational from the moment he entered, did he not."

"Yes, darling." 

"Did it appear to you that he had been cued to enter?"

"I don't know, I wasn't paying attention, at all.  No, no.  I was on my phone, texting...your brother. And then Carly called him in.  Anyhow, I'd just arrived myself a half hour before and there was general -- disorder that day."

"What more."

"I don't remember seeing him earlier, but he must have been around, they work together on clothing shoots, darling, mainly with the lighting."

"Partial education in an electrical engineering profile before leaving Grozny as a teenager," Mycroft interjects.

Alex stares.  "And it wasn't their first day, they knew each other, a bit.  Anyhow, Ruslan -- it is Ruslan, then?  I wish I could help you, but.  I do remember he got upset when Carly said he'd throw him out.  I told him he shouldn't, darling."

"Good," Mycroft replies, and smiles for the first time, though it is more a reflex than a clear display of satisfaction.  He pokes a hand into his jacket and removes a pressed linen kerchief.  "Enough for now.  Gently, or you'll bleed at the nares again."

"Pardon me, I don't know why I'm -- sorry." Alex says, blowing his nose as quietly as he can, which still seems to echo throughout Mycroft's office.  "Carly isn't in any danger, promise.  He isn't?  Good, oh good.  Has anything else happened?"

"There are few incidents which are truly isolated.  Come, little dove."  Mycroft pulls Alex against his shoulder to pet him.  His nape is very warm, almost feverishly so.  Mycroft strokes him.

"Mmmmmgggh, kitty, you know I love that."

"Calmly."

"You'll take care of it, won't you," Alex sighs, gesturing at himself loosely while rubbing his cheek against Mycroft's collarbone affectionately.  "You always say that things which look the most random are definitely not -- or was it Sherlock -- I think actually Sherlock told me that.  But he's so right.  Mmm, pet me just there, kitty.  Mmmm," he mumbles, arching his back a bit.  "Random things are _not_."

"True."  Mycroft fancies they need a summary.  One comes to his tongue:  _I worry endlessly over you -- and to share you with this world is --_  "You are very dear to me," he says instead. 

Alex sighs happily.  "Oh, I know, I never have to worry about that.  And yes, I know that was not random, either.  You've been thinking about me all day too, haven't you."

"That you are aware of it, Alexander, I count among my greatest successes."

Alex cinches his arms at Mycroft's back, crumpling their suits.  "That is such a beautiful thing to say.  It really is.  You are so good to me, I can't even.  Can we go, now?  I'd _really_ like to be home, and.  Oh, my."

"What is it?"

"I'm all right, but what you've said about him makes so little sense -- I mean, the situation and the set-up, if that's what it is."

"Ah.  And is that all?" 

"All?  No...maybe we can change the subject?  To something more immediate?"

"Yes."  Mycroft glances over at his desk. 

"Me."  Alex takes a deep breath, and turns his lovely, wide eyes to Mycroft's mouth, before leaning in until his nose is brushing Mycroft's earlobe.  "Who can hear?"

"Swept just yesterday.  Go on."

"I can tell you something about -- them?"

"A hint?"

"Maybe.  Oh, life is short, ha, I'll just tell you.  Red.  A cold oxblood, really."  Alex continues, "Little legs, semi-sheer and laced up in back."

Mycroft lifts a brow.  "Of each leg?"

"No, no, up the middle.  When I was at the Tate this afternoon, they were horridly ticklish, like right where -- imagine, you know how I am, there.  I was going _mad_."

"Alexander, is it wise, I ask you." 

"To tell you about this before we get in the car?  Certainly not."  Alex pats Mycroft's arse.  "I wonder if you'd care for more than gingerbread." 

Mycroft opens his mouth.  The pause is far too long, he thinks.  "-- Ah.  I'd planned to suggest the same." 

And that is, technically, a lie -- in terms of the _length_ of time implied, but Alex's eyes are already impossibly dark.  "Really?  Had you?  I can't _wait_.  And here I've -- not given you a kiss, yet."

 _It will not do to blush.  Spontaneity needn't look altogether nauseating._  "That you have not." 

"And I will not kiss you on your mouth again, until -- mmmm."

"Hush."

"And...just when you're remembering to breathe, I will kiss you, so much that you might forget again.  Because I can also take care of you."

Mycroft barely stops himself nodding.  Many gestures and their timing are best unexplained, he (still) thinks.  _And we shall not tell him about the thoracic haemorrhage, tonight_.

"It's been far too long since the last time," Alex continues, arousal now affecting his voice, "and you must learn the art of taking pleasure, you really must.  Everything has its time and place.  And you'll also need to take these laces apart for me, I double knotted them behind my back earlier on, because to be honest they were making me _impossibly_ _horny, oh my God_."

 

***

 

In the darkness, Sherlock has given John rough outlines, hoarsely, about what he needs ("That."  "Slowly.").  He lets go of a small, helpless chuckle and John's mind fills in a flash image of even teeth, beautiful lips and tiny rows of lines, where hollows in Sherlock's cheeks are rearranged whenever his mouth widens suddenly into a gasp (that sort, and they are gorgeous).  John would switch on a light to catch a quick look at them, if he could do it without changing the mood, but nothing should interfere with _this_.  "Ahh.  Ye - s, soldier, please, good."  

 _Hot when you talk, hotter when you can hardly talk, probably shouldn't let you in on that._   "All right, love.  I know."  John cannot see much of anything in the windowless darkness of their small bedroom.  _Yeah, this is going to feel so good, so good_.  John pauses in kissing his way down Sherlock's stomach to climb back up and find his mouth.  "Hmmm.  Beautiful."

"It's -- entirely dark.  John."

John reaches back and encircles Sherlock's cock in his fingers, giving it a few rolling pulls.  "Ha, but I know you are, and no, no lamp.  Not right now.  Ready for more?  Love you, you know?" 

"Ah.  Yes.  Nnnnnngh, yes." 

John works over Sherlock's shaft in increments, lolling his tongue and going in for a rhythm close to the throbbing between his own legs.  It is a pressure that has been spreading through his spine since after supper, when he'd gone to his chair and restlessly picked up a certain volume, recently received from a silver-templed friend ( _brother-in-law, sheesh, remember_ ) who'd made a startlingly correct guess about his tastes in bedtime-story-matter.  _Unless he doesn't guess, either.  Hell if I know._   Once John knows where the story is heading he will read some of it aloud to his phoenix.  So far, it is winding up into something resembling a favourite ink drawing from Sherlock he has, of an officer on his knees, fucking his dearest friend for all time, in a bed made of coats and sacks. 

 _An officer, the narrator, or just the author, actually, because it has to be him -- you can't make that up.  Fucking his best friend at night.  He's going to.  Going to._ John's fingers course over Sherlock’s hips; he lets his thumbs dig in a little harder, right on the insides of the trembling thighs just below John's chin.  He rubs at them and gives them kisses, too.  _Oh yeah, it would be a lot like this.  Dark, all mine.  One can't sleep at night and the other one knows.  Comes in on a pretext, something it would be easy to walk away from, a question.  He finds his friend still dressed, in a chair.  How did that go?  'But I was not alone and glad of it.'  Yeah.  'There was much discontent for many days on my mind.  Should I try to recall each reason I might never reach even one.  I scarcely felt his approach.  He confessed later he'd not noticed when he'd come up to me, so instinctual did it seem to him.'  Not even one thought, no, sometimes it's just like that, a blur, or only one useless thing.  And you have to do something to shut off your head or find another use, for yourself, you know you could do something more, at least for one person, give them everything you have right then.  Hope he'll take it._   _We don't think about the reasons, no.  For discontent.  We just push on.  And you're the reason I can, and you are everything, yes, and that's why we go on, because we don't actually want to shut everything off, not all our feelings, just the ones that hurt.  Nothing's going to hurt.  Nothing.  It's going to feel right._

"More of --" Sherlock chokes and sighs.  He cannot think, yet thinking is what ails him just now.  _Nnngh!_

"Yeah?"  John doesn't hear an answer and lowers his mouth again. 

The wet sounds of John's lips dragging over his cock are almost more exciting than what Sherlock had planned to say; he is running a hand over John’s hair.    _Focus._ John lets loose in the dark.  But Sherlock, when unable to see, loses -- things -- more easily, and right now, that means attention, and what was becoming a very promising erection.  _Focus!  Hell._ "Ahhmm."

John pulls off again and breathes.  "God.  You're going to feel so good.  Relax, though.  Or do you want to start?  Hmm?"  _You're going to love this, I'm going to make it so good._  "-- I'm going to -- you want me to -- "  John plants a kiss on Sherlock's inner thigh and flicks his tongue up over one of his balls, which has to feel amazing, he thinks.  _Doesn't it?_   "I can...?  Loosen you up a little?"  _What's the problem?  Me._

"Possibilities...." Sherlock mumbles.

John rolls onto his side.  "Try something else?  On me?"

"Of -- course?" Sherlock answers.

"How, then?"

"Mmm," comes an even more distracted reply.

"What.  Hey."

"It's -- I'm so close, but.  What."

"Yeah."

"Two -- hands.  I.  Mm."

"Wh -- ?  Sure, I can do that."

"Nnngh, _no_.  Not you."

An uncomfortable silence is avoided; a loud, long exhalation from John and a cough from Sherlock punctuate the moment.  "Uhm."

"John."

"Who, if...not...right.  Huhmmm."  John leans over Sherlock's chest and gropes for the switch on their bedside lamp which snicks loudly enough in his fingers that Sherlock glances over, half-expecting to see it loose.  

"Not the point," Sherlock says, as John's dark eyes now bore into his; he suppresses a gasp of recognition that is less situational than it probably looks, to his increasingly confused ex-officer.  _John, John, John, you will understand._ "Listen.  Two weapons, two hammers.  Acting out a scene."

"Fffff." 

"Revenge for the drunken libations of his childhood.  It fits.  We're looking for someone innocuous in appearance, who is -- oh!  Invited."

John rubs his face and licks his teeth.

Sherlock's eyes drop to the strained fabric over John's crotch.  "Oh.  Moore...."

"You'll have it if you want it.  Just saying."  John sighs from the gut.  _It's me._

"No.  Invited!  Onto the property.  There's the pattern, has to be."

"Not sure what you're on about right now, but."  John groans, pulls himself out of bed and flicks his cock up into the waistband of his pyjama trousers.  He cracks his neck and shuffles out of the room.  "Need to drink something," he says over his shoulder. 

Suddenly Sherlock is pulling a dressing gown over his shoulders and following at his husband's heels, eyes flashing in the light of the kitchen.  "There's more."

"What.  What, love.  Look.  Not exactly what I -- thought I'd hear."

Sherlock tips his head.  "I am 'on about' a _case_ , in fact."

"A -- case.  Case?  From where?  You're not.  Uhm."   

"From -- where cases come.  From the usual ignorance.  I am convinced that it might be a _very young_ serial killer.  Uniquely so."

"Oh, God." 

"Moreover, I am beginning to wonder who is protecting him."

John has poured himself a glass of boiled tap water from the kettle.

"He either uses two hammers, or switches hands while attacking."

"Who'd switch hands, though?" John asks.  "When you're -- when -- look.  It's not a game, it's not like you can afford to switch hands."  He swallows and coughs to the side.

"Exactly." 

"Sure about that?  Two weapons?  Sort of medieval.  Psychotic, actually."

"Yes!"  Sherlock's entire face crinkles elatedly. 

John shivers a bit and laughs.  "What else have you got?"

"Not much."

"Hm."

"Soldier."

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"I know.  I know."

There is a long silence.  Sherlock nods to himself and glances over at the blackness of the window, perhaps at his own reflection.

"Love," John says, as something starts to click in place in his head.  "I'm actually really amazed.  How you know.  Things, you know."

"Sorry?  Oh, well.  That you still find my methods interesting," Sherlock replies, it would seem drily, "should be counted among the seven wonders, if it hasn't been." 

"Oh, they just don't know about that, I mean, the recent ones, right?" John chews at the inside of his cheek.  "You always amaze me, even when you're sneaking in a few hints for the force in Brighton, or."

"Mm."  Sherlock stuffs his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.

"Cold?" John asks.  "You know, I think we were in the middle of you being brilliant?"

"You were, that much I remember."  Sherlock's cheeks are burning and he cannot do a thing about it.

"Yeah?  You have a decent chair, love?  Open that, I wasn't done."

In a heartbeat Sherlock is in John's armchair, legs stretched long, his toes curled into the carpet.  John grins up at him from between his knees, eyes shining, "You brilliant creature.  Solving cases in your brain while I suck you like old times, aren't you.  Damn, I'm going to lose it.  Remember when -- fff.  Hmmmmm."

"You can try," Sherlock mumbles.  John takes him back in his mouth.  Sherlock's thighs quiver and his toes flex; he thrusts up between John's lips until he is hard enough that John can move his hand away.  “How do you -- know?" he gasps.  When John looks up again, Sherlock's heads has dropped to one side and his teeth are grinding into his lower lip.  His eyes are closed, breath quick.  John hears him hum; his long fingers have reached for his hair, just as his stomach goes rigid.  He moans, spreading his legs farther apart; he is losing himself so beautifully that again John wishes he could watch more; for now, his head is being pressed down -- lightly, but out of need and hunger to close space; he knows it well.  He bobs down as far as he can and digs his thumbs into Sherlock's thighs.

A groan rises from deep in Sherlock’s throat, and John pulls off, palming and rolling his thumb over Sherlock's cockhead and getting his mouth up to Sherlock's just in time to push his tongue in for a hard kiss.  When he opens his eyes again he wipes his hand over his pyjama trousers and smiles.  "Yeah?  Not done, though," he laughs quietly.  "Not done.  Ahh, love.  Touch me a little, yeah?"

Sherlock blinks and smiles back, cheeks warm.  He drapes his dressing gown over his lap and orders John with a gesture that he should kneel over him; he slithers down on the silky material until he is nearly on his back, and lets John have a few quick thrusts in his mouth.  He finishes fast, in a stream of praises and obscenities, his forehead dropping comically onto the back of the chair, and with Sherlock's hands grasping over the flex of his arse. 

Sherlock has always found John's rhythms extraordinary.


	10. Those affected

_Have you finally ordered his sofa?  Honestly.  Alex_

_2966-SE Sleeper, Espresso.  SH_

_Fabulous choice!  BTW get the hassock.  Alex_

_+400 for lg flip-top pouffe.  Opinions?  SH_

_Many.  Alex_

_???  SH_

_Option of flipping a lg top always desirable, esp. in living room.  Alex_

A silence follows, every increment seeming to add to Alex's amusement.  At last, a reply arrives:

 

_Incontrovertibly.  SH_

_Can you even put a price on a good man's knees, haha  Alex_

_Cf. Northtown Road Kneecap Awling, 1988.  SH_

_OMG OK ;-) thank me another day.  Alex_

 

Mycroft rolls his lips between his teeth as he flips over an A4-format photograph, narrowing a tired eye at a yellow slip which is meant to accompany it.  He is presently testing a certain rule of his and the artist's about reading files in bed (again).  "Unquestionably _not_ an automated vehicle column, Alexander.  An ill-timed challenge to our optoelectronics objectives for the newest modular systems integrations in the neighbouring cities," he says.  He is seated against pillows and the oak headboard of his own large bed; his socks are removed, his shirt and waistcoat unbuttoned and spread open, cuffs undone and rolled.  He has done these things himself, tonight.   

He assesses his own exposed stomach, deeming it as nastily stippled as ever, though quite firm, when held so.  He is tempted to test it with his thumb inside his waistband but it could be taken for more; Alex, always receptive to examining and kissing the very places Mycroft would edit _out_ of his self-assessments, is just within two arms' reach.  He makes what could be mistaken for shy eye contact but is not attempting to draw more attention to himself.  _Shared distance.  No, enough_.  The elder Holmes reaches abruptly to the right for his phone, which is face-down on his night table.  "8432.  02899.  Refer 589 to section 23 at once.  Should need arise, 677 to 08.  0933 in the absence of Robert's benchmarks.  That will be all until nine.  Yes, yes.  Confirm.  Good night," he intones, eyes softening slightly.  He replaces the phone carefully at its previous angle; Alex lifts a brow and bends his slim legs gently at the knee.  His breath shudders as he pulls them to the side.  Their tempting forms are still hidden within elegant trousers; he has not removed his dress shirt, either.  Mycroft's eyes course over this, as well as the artist's tie.   _Loosened in a careless way that suggests having been kissed and fondled.  Yet you have had to pull at it, yourself_.

 _A field day to a mind set on deduction_ , Mycroft nearly says aloud, after glancing down at himself once more.  _Likely conclusion: too little familiarity with -- particulars --_ still applicable, in his case, though it has been more than two years since he'd first determined, by way of 'reciprocation', that Alex is definitely the braver of them.  Not that he'd ever doubted it -- the notion of 'receptive pleasures' is still distractingly worrisome to him, not in the least because of his own perfectionism, which loses its purposefulness quickly enough to throw him in waters, many depths and climes of which he has yet to master.  Were he able to 'delete' memories and experiences, truly, he would choose certain resigned sexual encounters past, particularly their silence, and the streams of mortifying details his mind had gathered, in the absence of deeper emotions.  He wishes he'd noted a certain tendency in himself, sooner:  making futureless attachments born of pity ( _followed by graceless groping, the negotiation of -- bulges_ ) when time seemed less precious than usual.   

"How is he," Mycroft asks, still fingering through photographs. 

"Oh.  How did you know I was -- ah, well.  He's so funny.  It's about a sofa," Alex explains, rubbing the front of his neck.  "Mm."

"Good lord," Mycroft mutters, "don't tell me more if it involves...DNA." 

"Sorry?  No, no, only indirectly, I guess.  I told him he should get one that's good for -- two, just like yours but for guests." 

"Ah."   _Guests?  The wonders in your head never cease._

Alex appears to be typing in a farewell, mouthing some of the letters to himself.  "A fold-out, you know the sort."

"You clearly did _not_ tell Sherlock to get one 'just like mine'."  

"Ha, and certainly not just like mine," Alex says, missing the irony in Mycroft's tone while suddenly giggling at the memory of his friend's flaring nostrils:  _The velour index, Alex, in this flat, is off the only known scale, which was discarded in, oh, the early 1990s, as it was presumed nobody would consult that microfiche!_ "Well.  John wanted a sofa, that's how it all started."

Mycroft smirks to himself. 

Alex glances away from his hands and sighs.  "Robert.  Culver, from -- ?"

"Yes."

"-- The same one that's on the other trade committee?  He's got behind at work again?"  Alex licks his lips as his phone buzzes in his fingers.  "Those murders -- didn't you say another one's just happened?  You'll let Sherlock put in a word, if he asks to, please, it's horrid."

"No, consider the implications.  He knows to stay out of it."

"Kitty."

_There?  SH_

_Yes :-) I forgot - Sloth, Blasphemy, Gluttony and Lust are returning to London!!! Alex_

_As though theyd ever left.  SH_

_*they'd  SH_

_My drawings w/ Tate I meant, tho spot on about sins.  Alex_

_I am always spot on about sins.  SH_

_I'd like proof of that, pls  Alex_

_Brilliant that you have doubts.  SH_

_Would J even let you? ;-) More doubts!  Alex_

_OK, goodnight.  SH_

_Goodnight!  Ha ha Alex_

               

The artist titters to himself.  "Anything I should pass on to someone very, very dear before bed?" he asks.

Mycroft blinks, sets aside his file and turns his gaze on the artist.  "Your kind regards."

"All right, then."

"Please."    

"Of course.  Oh. Of course, yes, darling."  The phone is powered down and tossed aside; Alex crawls over, close enough that his clicking heart is clearly audible.  "You've finished?"  He leans further toward Mycroft, bending the eyes-only file under his hand.  "Oh -- dear, I'm sorry."

Mycroft squeezes his teeth together.  "No bother.  Messy in any form." 

"Are they?  Would you mind if I turned out the lights for us?" Alex asks, backing away and sliding off the bed without waiting for an answer.  "There," he says, once in darkness, which is only partial -- broken up by irregular streaks at the bases of the furnishings, where their night light casts a familiar, broad, semi-circular glow.  Mycroft waits; were he having Alex this evening, the artist would insist on seeing every blotch on his shoulders, every hair out of place, every bead of exertion on his forehead, in the best and brightest of overhead lights, and would pay tribute to every one.  "I've put you off too long, tonight," he remarks.

"A bit long," Alex admits, eyes wide, all the more otherworldly in the low lighting.

"Not a habit I wish --"

"Mycroft."  Alex takes a deep breath and kneels directly in front of the elder Holmes so that he can reach out and stroke his shoulder.  "I don't like to resort to blunt terms."

"It is the name I was given," Mycroft replies lightly, confident he knows what is coming.   

"I don't know how to say this otherwise, but I can't."

"Ah."  Relief is already snaking through Mycroft's abdomen.

"You do understand.  I can't.  Get it up."

"Love brings with it astonishing reductive capacities."  (Mycroft considers that one of the more useful, even generative conclusions he's come to in many weeks, regarding feelings, and is pleased to share it.  For all of two seconds.)   _Bugger._

"Reductive?"  Alex shakes his head in confusion.  His good nature prevents his assuming the worst of available interpretations.  "Well, I've not thought of it that way," he remarks.  "In all honesty, I can't think of much else, after what you told me earlier on.  About the assistant photographer."  _And Carly, who has him there at his side all the time._

Mycroft nods slightly.  "Naturally.  You were the most affected." 

"And I don't know why _._ "  During an intense silence, Alex's eyes shimmer with tears, and he finally releases Mycroft long enough to rub at his eyelids with his fingers.  "Tell me we can try another night, you rarely agree."

Mycroft drops his gaze.  "Alexander...it is only a matter of your health --"

"And yes, I've taken everything properly, it's my head.  My own silliness."

"Silliness, it is not.  You've plenty of worries.  I've handed off too many of my own, as well," Mycroft concedes.  He reaches forward to take the artist into his arms.  "No tears.  Your feelings are as clear as ever."

"Kitty.  Sometimes I -- mmmm." Alex cannot finish that, and turns his face into Mycroft's chest, ticking the skin nearest his nose by kissing it.  "I really love this, too, if I could -- mmm, lovely.  Kiss me, it's the best thing in the world."

Mycroft has a deeper need, like an itch, for _expurgation_ of another offending jumble of names, places, and facts, for them both. 

He settles on an alternative. 

While not widely celebrated for his ability to shed clothing in a provocative manner, he can divest himself and others of it quickly -- unless burgundy satin and lacing present themselves on a lovely bottom in the mean, at which he must linger, and toy with said laces.  He has also learned that interruption of his own murky worries, in the form of light kisses applied to a willing neck, a deft hand between the thighs, and ingenuous praise, can work wonders, great and small.  The least of them will be his own rather swift orgasm in Alex's soft palm.  It will precede two of the grandest pleasures in his personal life:  mirth, and gratitude.

***

When Michael Moore texts and then calls, at close to ten in the evening, it is with electrifying news.  It is cabled straight from a former colleague, in the Brighton force:  a woman has been attacked, by all appearances with a hammer, in her back garden.  It is the first such attack out of doors, in the horrific series.  Moreover, the victim has survived the attack and is in hospital, condition critical. 

Sherlock is already pacing the floor a few words into his call, and suddenly turns about, flicking his gown out of the way of a chair before spinning lightly to double back.  He has finally heard it:  an unofficial and cautious appeal -- that he visit the scene.  Immediately.  That someone would (even) pop by for him.  Sherlock opens his mouth to refuse, finding it dry.  He inhales silently.  John, who is propped against the door frame to their bedroom, biting at the inside of his cheek, looks on intently enough that he nearly drops the book in his left hand. 

"If I take on anything," Sherlock says, glancing away from his man, whose jaw has tightened as he flexes several of his fingers, "it would be followed by a _deluge_ of inquiries.  Only natural, as it is I hardly hold them off."  He rolls his eyes.  "I am _retired_." 

John raises his eyebrows and shrugs.  

Sherlock nibbles at the plushest point in his lower lip, chin jutting forward.  "Mmmm, retired, _like myself_.  No."

John sighs and shuts his eyes, working at his own lips with his tongue.   _Well, shit._

"No, good night."  Sherlock rings off and barely resists throwing the mobile at the far wall.  He does give it a long swing that general direction, in his fist, before roaring, "God, John!"

"Hey," John says, putting out a hand.  "Take it easy."

"Hell.  _Hell_!"

"Easy.  Easy, now. What was that?"

"Nnngh!"

"They want you to come in?"

"How do you --" _make the tedium plainer still for God's sake, John_ , Sherlock gulps. 

"What's on, though?" John asks.

"Another."

"Inquiry?  Or?" 

"Fresh crime scene. For the combing. In the dark, granted.  The hammerer. Struck again. Struck, hah, yes. Hell!"

"Hmmm.  Damn it...."  John pushes out a breath through his nose hard enough that he swipes at it.  "What if you -- nah.  Nah."

"What.  _What_."

"I could go, or.  Nah, no."

"You _cannot_."

"Right, just an idea."

"One of -- one!"

"What if you went -- in a disguise?  You could try."

Sherlock glares at the floor.  He has plenty of replies to that idea but chooses wisely:  "Not this time.  Hell, it would be so --"

John's face slacks.  These are scenarios he could go without.  "Easy?"

" _Nnnngh!_ "

"Call him."

"Not calling."

"Call your friend.  Maybe he can --"   _Or not, never mind?_

Sherlock's brows have furrowed dangerously.  "Can...."

"Not whoever you were just --"

" _John!!_ "

"He could talk to Mycroft?  Right?  He could.  Hey.  Oh, right.  Sure.  Sure, we're _five years old_ and counting," John grumbles to himself as Sherlock streaks past him, a silky rage of retired genius on swift toes that still miss each of the creaky kitchen floorboards.  

He reaches the dark greenhouse and flops downward.

_Snap-thud --_

A larger double-bump, an epithet in an unrecognised language, and a long, heavy groan that would be hot if it weren't so obviously _pained_ , follow. 

John hears fewer of those because he has hissed and tossed his book.  He twists at the waist a bit too hard and rushes forward, skidding in his socks before finding Sherlock seated on the edge of the now-broken chaise, holding his left wrist against his knee.  "Piece of.  You little French _turd_ of a --" John grunts at the chaise and drops on a knee.  "Show me?" he says, licking his lips.

"Not broken, no need."  Sherlock is showing most of his teeth. 

 _Damn it._   "Could be cracked?  Give it."

"Not cracked, John."

"Ice.  Hmm," John says.  "Flex --"

"Watch it," Sherlock spits.

"Easy."

"Mm."  _Every bit as hopeless as it seems, not even properly sprained, soldier._

John frowns and sighs.  "I'll get something," he concludes, pulling himself up again.  He pauses and kisses his phoenix on the crown of his head.  "Damned thing couldn't choose a better time?"

"It was, in fact, the _best_ of times," Sherlock says, raising a brow and staring ahead of himself.

"Heh.  Maybe so."  John smiles (downright roguishly) over his shoulder at that, his profile sharply backlit.  The frozen carrots he returns with help nearly as much as a few soft kisses he places all around Sherlock's mouth.  "Love you, beautiful."

"I love you."

"Listen, uhm."

Sherlock rolls his eyes pre-emptively.  _Talking_.

"Hold that on there.  So.  Can we talk about this?  Hm?  We'll fix things."

"It's as good a moment as any to inform you that _our_ sofa will be delivered in four days' time," Sherlock says, aiming for languor in his tone despite the ache in his left wrist, which sharpens at any significant movement up and down.

"Serious?"

"Verrry."

"Fold-out?"

"Mhm."

"Like, new?  Yeah?  Good.  But actually I meant fix _things_ , that if these murders are going on right under our noses here, I think your brother would let you in on this case.  But maybe it would be better, I just meant, maybe, ask Alex."

"I will _not_ _ask Alex_.  Don't be absurd."  _Ouch_.

"Right.  I think you underestimate some things here.  Like what his opinion means to your brother, and -- how much he likes you."

" _Likes_ me." 

"Like a -- brother, you know.  Hey."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose comically, though the only 'stench' worthy of this display of ruffled pride is of his own imagining. 

***

John wakes.  A quick grope to the right confirms he is alone, in bed.  He props himself up on one arm, notes that there are no revealing sounds to be heard in the toilet and living room, and wipes his mouth.  _All right, up._  He picks up his phone, finding he has three more hours of sleep, potentially, before he'd be getting up for work.  He swears and scratches his nose.  The silence that follows the _clunk_ of his phone missing the bedside table, and its precarious swing at the end of its cable, is enough to make the hair on his neck stand.  _Where, though_.  He gets on his feet and heads for the living room.  There is not an ember left in the fire grate, nor any sign that Sherlock has fallen asleep elsewhere in their house.

His beautiful phoenix, he realises, as sweat hits cool air on his brow, has flown.


	11. At the turn of a key

Sherlock is registered leaving the front garden shortly past midnight; it is moonless out, and he passes swiftly through two pastures, soaking the ankles of his trousers (dark jeans, annoyingly snug in the waistband). He cuts onto a swath of overgrown brush along the main road, where a small side fence allows for quick entry to the second-closest neighbour's tool shed.  Here, Sherlock had once hidden a small key in the side of a rotten wall-board.  He digs it out with his longest fingernail and backs away again.  His hands are trembling.  He opens his mouth to comment before recalling that John is fast asleep -- and not nearby.  _Out of condition_ , he decides, about them both; even so, his exhilaration is growing by the minute.  He hasn't had a chance to fully test out this mad arrangement but it _must_ work, and could be worth exploiting again:  at yet another neighbouring house, one set further in from the road than most others, there is an outbuilding with a padlock -- the model sold at no fewer than six local shops.   _Pot metal with brass plating, seems weighty, favoured by pensioners for its price_.  Sherlock favours it, too -- the entire lot has identical keys.  _Bill Lutton, 68, slovenly amateur woodcarver, has a large weatherproofed work shed, yet knows nothing of his sole instance of utility_.  (That is somewhat unfair -- the man had constructed six nicely-fitted interior frames to slide into Sherlock's hives.)

 _The Adventures of the Single Key_ \-- it would make for a ridiculous series under the pen of his little wolf, Sherlock muses to himself, and can hardly stop himself sniggering, though his left wrist is smarting.  It wants bandaging but that is for later.  Now, he reaches for his object:  a very old Nokia plugged into a spare socket, behind a heavy table that Lutton cannot reach anymore, due to his girth.  Sherlock peruses Lutton's newest sculptures -- each more hideous than the last, _as his progress is usually measured_ :  a bear eating a fish that resembles a meat chop, a mermaid with enormous nipples, and a gull with a disconcerting anthropomorphic smirk on its beak that brings brother dear to mind.  _Should he add an umbrella I'd pay any price_.  He nearly bumps a half-finished fisherman in annoyingly oversized boots.  The wood-spirit varnishes are pleasant to sniff.  Some of the tools also beg to be 'borrowed'.  

He will hold off.

Roman Wilk, fortunately for one of them, sleeps as poorly as ever.  He is delighted to drive Sherlock to hospital in Brighton, where CCTV cameras record the detective's entry at 2:27 a.m.  He emerges at 4:31 with a splint and bandage of his own making.  He also has plenty of hearsay from the cleaning staff about the victim of the attack.  He has her home address, dead centre in his head.  Roman, awakened from a badly-needed snooze in his car -- consults a battered paper map by the light of Sherlock's well-nibbled penlight.  And by the first rays of dawn (which are late and inadequate but must do), Sherlock takes in what he can from the scene left in an empty garden. 

The prints are useless.  Sherlock berates himself for having _any_ expectations of the scene; he has to admit to himself that he'd had certain hopes.  Even when stepping away from them, he cannot find anything to grasp at.  A promising bicycle tire track seems to belong to the lady herself. 

Roman leaves Sherlock at the edge of Eastbourne proper, where he makes his way toward John's clinic on foot. 

With any luck (not that he has ever believed in it), he will be among John's first patients.  

***

Alex opens his eyes to his favourite sight:  Mycroft, neatly brushed and dressed, and all but electric with endorphins after an early "hamster run".  He is already wiggling gold buttons into a shirt with stubborn slits on its cuffs, a task often left to Alex or interrupted by his attempts at kissing Mycroft's wrists or nibbling his fingertips as prologue to other pleasures.  The artist smiles and turns onto his back, stretching a thin arm ceiling-ward.  "Mmmm, come here?" he says, voice raspy with sleep.

Mycroft looks on, more lingeringly than planned, noting the sequela of pleasant dreams among the folds of a thrush-emblazoned William Morris bed sheet -- no small feat.   _Because of the hectic floral_ , he would say, _no slight intended_.  "Better this morning?" he begins.

"Ehhh," comes a yawned answer.  "Oh, better by far.  Kitty, lovely man." 

 _Alexander, as endearingly good-natured as he was in the night.  The privilege of making such comparisons cannot be overvalued._   "That is well," Mycroft tells him, forcing aside an urge to seat himself on the bed.  "Wash up and dress, if possible within fifteen minutes.  I've chosen your clothes, they're on my bed.  Pills, _all_ of them.  Breakfast is on the -- table.  Up, please.  Well.  Ah."

"All right," Alex replies, sliding out of what was once Mummy's 'spare' bed (-- the narrow one, in 'the blue room', as Sherlock has pointed out, which 'spared' her sleeping with her husband more often than not); he has on a thin black nightshirt with a longer yolk in front and back.  For different reasons, he and Mycroft both like it for its low-cut front, which he now gathers at the neck; he grins as the lower hem catches on his half-hard cock.  "Morning," he remarks at himself, and snorts as he remembers Sherlock doing almost the same, in Eastbourne.  He plucks Mycroft's pocket watch from the man's waistcoat with two fingers and turns it over.  "What time are we -- oh.  But.  A quarter past six?"

"Because you'll accompany me at the first meeting this morning," Mycroft informs him, taking his timepiece back and dropping it in place.

Alex's hands drop to his sides.  "Gracious Peter and Paul."

"Come.  Enough."

Alex takes Mycroft's arm and lets himself be led from the room; the floor in the hallway is cold and he walks on his toes. "I -- don't have clearance.  Do I?  Yes?  But isn't the agenda centred around those photographs of Iraq?"

"No longer.  There were errors but they were remedied in the night, no need to draw attention to the doer."  _At this stage._   "Another issue emerged in the early hours."  _Breaching the northeast perimeter of the property at 12:16 a.m._   "And, you've not had occasion to meet the committee."

"Of course I have not," Alex answers, as he enters Mycroft's bath, "because you have never wanted any dovetailing at all, of our activities with that particular group.  Kitty, I'd have prepared, you know."

"Recall that some of the members know a bit about you," Mycroft tells him, leaning a shoulder against the door-jamb.  "Your name, in connection with your services to Her Majesty and the Family, or your design for an outrageously successful pavilion in Beijing.  Little more than that, however.  Your occasional appearances in Whitehall --"

"Today, visiting draughtsman, of NATO mobile teleoptics logistics.  Or logical-optical mobility tele-something, oh mercy...."  Alex hums and rubs the corners of his eyes as he examines himself in the bathroom mirror.  "I'm a fright, no wonder you've not given me a kiss."

"You are a vision.  But.  The rest comes later, and in a slightly different grouping.  You will observe it in the capacity of developing an advisory ethical core for legislating unmanned aerial technologies.  It will apply, as there are two other members with chairs elsewhere -- dovetailing, Alexander, is a good descriptor of intersectional matters, and balances maintained in those meshings."   _For the good of the arrangement in Eastbourne_.  "I'd never have chosen this grouping but events were thrust on us at a delicate point in the life of at least one other member, recall."

"Well, you know what they want for their complicity," Alex says.  Mycroft glances at his shoulders and neck once more.  (They are unmarked, as are his wrists.)  "Kitty, I understand I should behave as --"

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

"As you would at any of the conferences, dinners, summits --"

Alex has noticeably tensed, perhaps at the detachment he imagines feigning for an unknown number of hours.  

"-- Planning commissions, assemblies, special sessions --"

"As though I felt a _barely_ -concealed distaste for my associate," Alex says rather brusquely, for him, while running his thin fingers through the wavier parts of his greying hair, to push it out of his eyes.

"In essence."

"Who brings me political gain I cannot catapult myself into key offices without.  'Will that be all', 'I've matters to attend to', not the least being _what alchemy_."

Mycroft frowns, eyes sliding evasively from the mirror.  "Wash.  Quickly."  

Alex raises his chin and bites his lips at his reflection before reaching over for the taps in the bath.  "Well.  May I ask you out, now?" he says, shrugging the nightshirt off his shoulders.

Mycroft turns away with a nod and swings the bathroom door shut behind them both.  A second later, it flies open and the artist leans out.  "Wait, please, I'm sorry."

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft murmurs, blinking.

"I -- wouldn't want to say anything foolish today, and -- and I'm -- _well on my way_ ," Alex squeaks.

"Meanwhile, I am fully certain," Mycroft answers, "that nobody will be better-prepared than you."

" _You_ will be.  Really, though.  I don't know what I'll say."

"Very little. Recall, in June?  The Palace, the West Annex sketches with -- ?"

"It was far worse that day.  Mmm, later on, you at my place, though, when you found -- hnnnn, Lord, you were mad that night over my stockings." 

"Not over your stockings, your manner in them," Mycroft breaks in to clarify.  "I'd intended to surprise you.  You should know -- calmly, Alexander.  There is something on the bed among the suit clothes.  Fully optional, of course."

"Really?  Thank you, I'll decide, I don't know --"

"Yes.  The water is certainly too hot now, take care and remember -- "

"I will."

"-- The handrail.  The new soap has a more enduring lather and the floor will be more slippery than usual.  Mind the time, please."

***

"Good morning, soldier." 

Sherlock has soaked shoes and smells like all six of the Lithuanian 'Astra' cigarettes he's had in recent hours.  His bandage is smudged with mud on the back of his hand, and he could do with a shave.  His eyes flash with satisfaction as he enters John's office, in between a refill request ( _liar_ ) and an eczema sufferer ( _insides of the thighs, too, apparently_ ).

John had opened the door, himself, and has just caught the first whiff of the night's escapades.  "Hey.  Smoking."

"Smoking." 

"Where?  What's this?  Love, wh --"

"A sprain, as you said, I was in _hospital_."  Sherlock flops into the metal and vinyl chair at John's desk. 

"What?  Nope, you'd -- have woken me up for that one."

"It is a sprain, I was in Brighton."

"Where, though."

"Royal Sussex County.  Trauma."

"Wait.  Your coat -- is that sawdust?"  John folds his arms and licks his lips.  "Trauma?"

"The victim, 58 years of age -- not certain whether she'll pull through, they say."

"They." 

"Multiple compound fractures, clotting, a severed --"

"Oh, God.  You went -- right, I think I --"

"Cleaning staff, John." 

"Yeah.  Jesus, Sherlock, how did you -- get all the way over there.  And back.  Tell me everything,"

"Another time."

"Can you -- not run off?  I knew it was -- look.  You wake me up next time, I was worried.  A lot.  You left your phone."

"Of course I did."

"Yeah, well.  That's why I wasn't worried, _oddly_ enough." 

Sherlock's lips curl.  "I was at the scene, needed an address.  I was in the garden, where she was attacked, it's been cleared."

"Anything at all, though?"

"Not -- no.  No, in fact, not -- " Sherlock shuts his eyes.   _Too little.  Why._

"Love, you should go home," John says.

"Shhh.  There was -- nothing.  Either I've lost my touch, or.  John."

"What."

"Mm.  Not sure.  So little _data_."

***

Several days pass. The case hangs, as they will -- _particularly these days_ , thinks John, who has let Sherlock's midnight escape slide, as a spot of harmless (even helpful) thrill-seeking. 

John picks up an unexpected call from Alex, and considers how best to word an invitation, should the artist need one. 

_There's a sofa now.  Fucking amazing leather, good call that was, just saying, good springs, easy on the back, easy to get him on his back, just, good._

"Yeah?  Hello?"

"Good afternoon, John.  Is this a good time?"

"Sure.  Uhm.  Everything all right up there?"

"In the main, yes.  And how are things?  There?"

"Great.  We're, uhm.  Same as -- not much happening."  John hums.  "Uhhhmm.  And Mycroft, how's he?"

"Very fine.  I -- would like to have a word."

"All right.  What."

"Just a moment.  Okay.  So.  I attended a sitting a few days ago.  And I must urge you to do your part in maintaining the present agreement.  Your part is of great importance."

"Like yours?  I guess?"  John shakes his head at the nearest wall and shuts his eyes.  _What am I supposed to say._

"That's very kind of you, thank you.  I was at a meeting, of the security committee, for the first time.  It's been a couple days, but.  I cannot push it out of my mind."

"You?  Why?"

"I don't question Mycroft's decisions at that level."

"Yeah."

"Well.  I.  I urge you to reason with Sherlock about the risks he is taking."

"What...risks are you talking about?"

"Trespassing on least two properties for the sake of a visit to the scene of an attempted murder, after actively obtaining information regarding confidential medical records, in an open investigation.  These all have legal expressions, I don't remember the wording.  But.  People could lose their jobs over indiscretions like those, should they be looked into more carefully."

"You mean Mycroft."

"I meant people in the hospital and, perhaps, the police?  I don't know."

"Uhm, yeah.  I absolutely agree that's -- serious."  _Well, shit._

"I -- I do understand the excitement of -- watching him work --"

"Look, it's not -- hm."

"But his arrangement is not set in stone, as much as we wish it were, it is a compromise that many find unfair, I'd never realised, John, how they work.  I mean in that committee."

"Hmm." 

" _We_ need Sherlock more than the local police force does.  Does that argument -- well -- I'm only presenting things, and."

"Look, I, uhm...see where you're coming from.  Just --"  John swallows.  "You know, you don't have to do Mycroft's work here, Alex, if they've got something to hash out."

Alex falls silent for a moment.  "Oh, you assume he asked me to call you.  No, this is me, overstepping boundaries my way.  Ha.  So."

"Oh, right.  Uhm."  John rubs his chin. 

"John, I don't know how he will feel about this call, but I couldn't leave things like this."

"I'll think about it.  Thanks.  Everything all right with you?"

"I have no complaints."

"Good.  Good.  Just, that fatality in Alberta was probably a one-off. Too soon to say, but you don't have a lot in common."

"I -- don't know which fatality that would be?" Alex replies.  "Alberta, did you say?"  Alex covers the microphone with his thumb and takes a deeper breath.

"A man with the same nanotech, I think.  Mycroft forwarded me something. But it looks to me like someone with a pre-existing condition, probably genetic?  Or.  Yeah."

"I'll.  I'll ask.  Thank you."

"For...?"  John waits for an answer or change of topic.  His right temple is starting to ache.  "Still there?"

"Yes!" Alex assures them both.

"Look.  Thank you for calling, actually.  We'll talk.  We'll work something out."   _Sure we will._

"Good, I'd be very glad to see any progress on that."

"Are you all right, though?"

"Take good care, John, greet him from us.  Well.  We have things to think about."

"We do."

"Goodbye for now."

The line clicks off in a peculiar way that suggests -- additional equipment.

_Right._


	12. Self-determination

"John." 

Sherlock has postured himself on the sofa to his advantage, legs poised one on the other just at the ankles -- atop the pouffe ( _obviously_ ) which he has yet to use to its full ( _intended_ ) potential.  He flops a hand in his lap and smooths a few imaginary lines along the faint blue stripes of his pyjama trousers.

 “Yeah?” John says, his eyes on his magazine, wholly on purpose; he smiles to himself.

“You...need rest.”

Sherlock has been watching John with his feet up all afternoon; he is also the one who has been disguising long yawns to where his eyes water. 

"Nah, no need," his soldier says, while moving a hand over his left shoulder and giving the top of his arm a squeeze.   _Still got it_.

"None?" Sherlock asks, pulling the word so that it is just long enough to sound like he's not finished.  He pauses for further effect.   _Soldier!_

John feels it would be better to put down the periodical; it is literally heavy in his fingers but only because they've joined other parts of him that have started recalling their favourite object.  He turns his head to look over at Sherlock, who has slowly assumed a completely different pose, leaning toward him, hands between his knees. 

"Nah," John says.  "Nope, rest isn't really in the cards at the moment."

"Mm?"

"Why are you looking like that?"

"Like...what?"

 _Gorgeous thing._ "Like.  Do you know how you affect me, every time?  What I want to do, more than with anyone I ever knew."

It knocks the breath out of Sherlock's chest to hear that; no matter in what words, and when it comes, John's compliments still warm him.  Granted, the warming happens to have been ongoing for about fifteen minutes, but now there will be no return.  That is what _hot_ would be, he thinks, if _people_ were able let it last that long, draw out glances the way he can with his John.  "You," he says, when most of his voice is there to use, at last, "too."

John smiles and shakes his soft, greying head, once, and Sherlock would leap over to touch him, tilt his chin up to his lips, and start everything. 

His heart is already quickening, a change he once treated as any other hit of unwanted adrenaline.  Now this dissonance between head and body -- where his mind is assured of John's love, and his body inching toward a loss of control to it -- makes for a prelude to other tiny splits in attention, which he wants to chase to pleasurable ends.   

John stands and suddenly Sherlock has two seconds to receive him, cupping a hand in John's hair and pulling him down onto his lap, opening his mouth as John comes in for a deep lick between his lips, sucking one with a loud, shameless groan.  Sherlock curls his fingers in harder and slides his back down as John climbs on top, slotting a leg until they've pressed close in the best places. 

Sherlock feels John's hand on the side of his face, rubbing circles into the sharpest place on his jawline.  John's tongue is hot and now he has started dragging it around his favourite lips in the world, sucking and nibbling down the centre of the proud chin, ready to take over Sherlock's neck -- with less and less control.  Sherlock hums and lets his body follow the first rolls of John's hips.  More kisses are pressed in a line to his collarbone, and just as John is about to mention how _fucking hard_ he is getting just being there, Sherlock feels it against himself.  John winds an arm behind Sherlock, a bicep thrust in Sherlock's face.  Sherlock smiles and takes a little bite.  "Hey, now.  Heh."  John is breathing like he's taken stairs in twos.  "Loving this sofa," he comments, and lets his head drop against Sherlock's. 

Sherlock kisses that, too.  "Clearly.  Off."  Those words are followed by a little smirk and a nod that John can and should really continue. 

John needs his hands in Sherlock's trousers, now, but that would mean losing some of the pressure between his legs.  "I need to stay like this," he mumbles, giving Sherlock a squeeze.  "I just said that.  Yeah.  Well, I do."

Sherlock makes a vague sound of agreement, though whether it was for both of them or not -- he would not know.  

John reaches down for his own zip.  _Better_.  He leans forward again, ghosting his lips over Sherlock's until their eyes drop shut and they both close that space again, crashing into another long, hot kiss.  Sherlock makes a low sound in his throat that ends with a sharp _ah --_ with John's warm hands crowding the space between them, looking for a way in.  He cups a palm up in the slit of Sherlock's pyjama and with a bit more shifting they find what they both want.

John strokes Sherlock's length in a quick, fisted drag, feeling all of the tension tremour into Sherlock's legs.  He reaches for Sherlock's hand and places it over himself.  "Can you, because -- _yess_ \--" he hisses, jerking forward into Sherlock's fingers.  He wets his lips and bites at them.  "More --"  He opens his eyes again to dive in for more licks, finding Sherlock's mouth open, eyes still closed.  "Hey.  Good, love?" he asks, and receives a speechless nod, punctuated by a messy, arrhythmic stutter of hips and breath; it will not be long.  He traces his thumb against Sherlock's cockhead again and again, pulling fast and hard, kissing him and listening to all the ways a body can go uneven just before peaking at a quick " _J -- yes -- J - ohn --_ " that John works down, gently, to a quiet end, which is slippery and warm, each throb answered with a small kiss to Sherlock's now-swollen mouth. 

He is close, himself.  _Fuck, good with you._ He gapes down at Sherlock, who has hardly recovered before showing he he wants John's trousers _off_.  His fingers are sliding down over John's arse, pulling his trousers down to mid-thigh, inviting him, turning around for him.

It is a gorgeous evening.

***

"Alberta?  Kitty?" Alex has just begun -- or has continued, as he has been more expressive in his nervous silence all throughout breakfast than he would have been in any string of words.  He has wrung his slim fingers, and gazed vacantly at every object between himself and Mycroft at the latter's dining table; food has given him no pleasure; he has only smiled in response to an anecdote of Mycroft's.  He is dressed down, having asked to go to his place, and not the _Diogenes_ office, for the day.  He will examine and give a preliminary written opinion on candidate portfolios for a holiday-time street-photography exhibit, at the _F8 &C_ gallery.  Time is pressing on that choice, though in the artist's anxious state of mind, it all seems to have snarled into yet another ball of events he has little say over.  He will look at them, anyhow.  And draw.  He has done far too little of that, lately.  He does not count the little scribbles in the margins of his journal; even there, he has had difficulty admitting how unnerved he is that Mycroft has failed -- or has chosen _not_ to tell him about the Canadian heart patient John had mentioned.  At the risk of having to explain his recent conversation with the doctor, which will be legible in his impossibly earnest, blue eyes for certain, he has moved the topic before it moves _him_ even more.

"Ah, yes.  There was an event, in Alberta.  An aneurysm burst during the adjustment of a leadless pacemaker device, from the same series as yours," Mycroft answers, raising his eyes from his plate.  He sets his silver aside.  "There was no time to discuss it these last several days."  He touches his mouth with a serviette.  "And your case bears little -- semblance, ah, as John would certainly have confirmed.  Please finish your tea.  You will likely be part of follow-up research, which may be as little as a questionnaire or a stress test under the supervision of a researcher.  No need to bother your head over it any further.  Rodney will be here shortly, are you dressed --"

"I feel like a vessel," Alex remarks, biting his tongue a moment too late.

"Weigh your resentments carefully.  Recall the sinus rates, the flutter," Mycroft says, tracing a fine, jagged line in the air between them.  When he speaks again, his voice seems to have been halved in strength.  "We'd only just won you back."  He swallows.  "Consider the pocket they would carve into you, the partial loss of left arm rotation you might have had, the protrusion, the leads.  A high risk of infection.  That said, it was never about vanity, but precision.  It can be removed, repaired or adjusted within an hour, with local anaesthetic only.  Moreover, it carries an identifier."

"A tag?" Alex asks.

"It is not a tracking mechanism.  Only for -- an unlikely event."

"Of what, darling."  Alex sips the last of his tea and looks imploringly over the edge of the porcelain.

Mycroft sighs away the bluntest replies, among them fires and abduction.  "For unambiguous identification."

"Is it anything like the subcutaneous ones they've just got in MI6?"

"Yes, quite similar."

"Like a field agent.... "  Alex cocks a brow but not favourably.  "Won't it be readable to -- who would it be readable by?" he asks, face falling back into worry.  "There are scan points.  Didn't you say recently that there were rogue readers -- or rogues with readers already?"

"There are."

"Is this the reason you were upset about Reuben, or Ruslan?"

"A separate matter."

"Which is _primary_ , then?"

Mycroft shakes his head and continues, "You are unsettled by the death of the patient, which is understandable.   You also seem to be wondering _why_ on earth you conceded your self-determination." 

It is the first time he has put Alex's situation in those terms.  A silence thickens. 

"How is it," Mycroft asks, flatly.  "Explain."

The artist is singed.  His eyes are already watering.  "Well.  I could ask you, too," he replies, "why you wanted -- a hindrance, a man who cannot follow far, a lover you do not show anyone, who fears God but has no self-discipline, a professional failure salvaged by your generosity and guidance, who is spoiled, deserves nothing of his putrid blood-diamond fortune, earned on the backs of people who rarely saw the sun in their lives -- who -- who -- I -- am -- "

"Essential."

"You've answered your own question, kitty, because where is my self-determination to function if not _here_?"

Mycroft measures his next words:  "It has always seemed more important to ensure you the minimums of unpleasant contact, in all spheres.  And paradoxically, it will make you vulnerable in other ways.  It is an endless balancing act.  The nano device, the identities you uphold."

"Identities.  I am but one person."

"With heart enough for countless persons.  Are you ready to go -- "

Alex puts his face in his hands and rubs his eyes.  " _Husband_."

"To that, you have not explicitly agreed," Mycroft replies.

Alex drops his hands and meets Mycroft's gaze with rare severity in his entire face.  "I did not explicitly agree to your employment of a 'clerical error' to override my will which included your taking on -- _an unwieldy role for yourself_.  Saying that I have not _agreed_ \-- that -- that borders on ridicule."

"Alexander." 

"You have always chosen your words with great care.  _You_ have never 'agreed'.  You've never referred to me that way, which is expressive, it is, you know, Sherlock is quite right that the missing things are of importance.  For instance, would I assert my hopes, again, in such an impasse, when you said we were a clerical 'error' and that you might soon 'right' your error?  _How and when might I have_ _agreed_ , _explicitly, when I did not know if I could!_   Standards in communicating these things do pertain!  Perhaps I ought to have changed my will -- is that what you've waited for?  That I would remove the clause that a spouse may decide on my behalf in medical emergencies?" Alex gasps at his own outpouring. "I can do.  Whatever you like, as long as I am asked."

Mycroft is wholly unable to answer.

"The car.  Goodbye," Alex coughs slightly, and stands up from the table with a nod as formal as one he had given their first day of acquaintance.  He then quits the room so quickly that Mycroft cannot hope to catch him without bruising him. 

The front door slams. 

Mycroft is stunned.  He might as well have been slapped for the numbness he feels in his face.  _Lest your heart be affected another hour.  No._

On the chance the car has not yet arrived, he hurries to the front door, still in slippers, his breath shallow and incomplete; he jerks it open, startling Alex, who is at the top stair, watching the road for 'their' Rodney.

"In the house," Mycroft says quietly, just behind Alex's ear.  He receives no response.  "I must ask you to come back in the house."

Alex takes a long breath and turns enough to be able to step over the threshold and retreat into the foyer, where a short line of coat backs meet him first.  He leans away from the door as Mycroft reaches near him to close it, but makes no other gesture of assent. 

"I did not intend to pain you, least of all through vagueness.  It was meant darkly -- comically, in the beginning, when I spoke of _Verschleppung_.  There is no more liberating thought than knowing my feelings are returned," he says, "by you.  _Husband_ captures little."

"Not true!" Alex nearly shouts.  "To me it's armour.  All the times I have to deny you, even knowing you, but I always think it, always!"

"I didn't know."

"But that's how it is," Alex answers.  "Perhaps it's silly."

"No.  By analogy, I wanted the privilege of hearing my name on your lips."  Mycroft licks his own.  He is aware that his forehead is sweating.  "Long before you were acquainted with me.  That has never changed."

"Oh my God.  Mycroft.  Dearest kitty.  Of course it hasn't.  Darling."

"I should have gone without that."

 _Weigh your resentments_.  Alex gulps, "No, no, never.  Never.  Never." 

"I couldn't."  Mycroft grasps Alex's nape and kisses him, humbled to where he leaves off preludes and presses in much harder than he might were he not so desperate to be believed.


	13. Face

  _Swiping right???  Have you seen Tinder?  I can't forget it, brutal OMG  Alex_

_Yours, indeed.  News?  SH_

_Have just chosen photos for exhibit w Carly.  Alex_

_Swipe left.  SH_

_Spores + new links to cold case.  SH_

_There?  SH_

_Where is my brother?  SH_

_House of Lords but not the hearing!  Alex_

_Coming to London any time soon?  Please?  Alex_

_With necessary rescue plan.  SH_

_Ha ha, you need rescuing ergo J likes the sofa ;)))  Alex_

_You've valiantly resisted developing your deductive faculties.  Interesting.  SH_

_I prefer point-blank.  Why don't you want to visit us?  Alex_

_Have my flat if it helps!  Alex_

***

"I had a double whiskey, two days ago.  I was clean for 9 months, 2 weeks and 1 day," explains Moore, as he drops into a hideous green tartan armchair and motions to its repellent mate, where Sherlock lowers himself and drapes his coat around his knees.  The heating is even lower than usual.  _Economising_.  _Guilt_.  The former DI slumps; according to the dust on the side table between them, a self-standing card with four recovery slogans has been consulted, thrown down, and re-arranged in its usual prominent position several times.   _Tomorrow matters._   

 _Clean_.  "Mm," Sherlock says, stopping at least three remarks from reaching his lips.  He grimaces, "What changed?"

"Staying off isn't easy, I guess you'd know best."

Sherlock glares; Moore shakes his head and reaches over for a rumpled packet of cigarettes that has been taunting them.  "Off _cases_ , Holmes.  No insult intended.  Any real reason you still stay off?  Your solve record was --"

"Unimportant."

"Wouldn't say that."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock shrugs.  "Oh.  Thank you."  He plucks out a fag as Moore turns the torn side of a Marlboro packet his way.  "Who's asking."

"I am," Moore says, striking a light after a few tries on the back of a Brighton pub match-book that looks to be least twenty years old. "Not that others haven't wondered."

"What else would they have to do," Sherlock mutters, chin jutting toward the squiggle of black cardboard in Moore's stumpy fingers as it flickers out.  "Mm."  He waits for the next, eyes hooded and distant. 

"Ever heard of Tamara Jopp?" Moore asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he leans over with the light.

"I should have, because?"  ( _Glorious nicotine_.)

"Journalist, came down to Brighton, from Birmingham.  Asked if you were in.  They said you weren't.  Or, no, she started asking why they _didn't_ bring you in."

"And?" Sherlock lets a smoke ring pop off his lips.   _Hell_.

"'Internet-famous detective stubbornly in seclusion'.  Raising a stink."

"Perennial stink-raising, nothing new," Sherlock says, considering the stench John will find on his fingers and clothes.  He might take better care, he thinks.  _Another time._

"I told you, they'd bring you in if you want."

"Retired."

"Yeah," Moore says.  "You were at the hospital, someone posted online about it, all excited.  Anything?"

"No."  Sherlock rubs his chin.  "No, it was clean.  I was on Somerset Road.  Clean!  That's it."   _Isn't it._

"Yeah."

_Oh, something._

Moore hands over several lists he's made; three cigarettes follow.  Sherlock's eyes fall closed.  Moore has the good sense to shuffle off and make a mug of coffee for himself.

"Marlis, Kerton, Miller, Vander, Latma," Sherlock counts off quietly.  "Marlis, Kerton.  Miller."  His eyes open.  "Vander, Latma.  Who _else_ did you say was there?" he asks.

Moore leans out of his kitchen doorway.  "Kerton's parter, Sergeant Nuc?  Impeccable record, if that's what you're, you know."

"Clean."

"Clean, like all the others."

"Oh. Clever perpetrator...." Sherlock whispers, licking his lips excitedly.  _John!_   "No.  Young.  Not clever.  Aided...."

"Coffee?  While I'm at it?  Should have asked, sorry about that.  I have one more clean cup in here, meant to be.  Sugar?"

 _Clean_.  Sherlock reaches for the packet again and gazes at a point just beyond his nose, brows furrowed.  _Oh.  Oh._   "Who has a relative between the ages of 15 and 17?  Male?"  He lights a fifth cigarette with the smouldering end of the first.  "Tell me, man!"

Moore reappears, face clouding.  "Nuc has a stepson, around 10, 11.  And the Chief Inspector has two sons, not sure how old, now.  Here."

Sherlock waves the coffee off as if it were swarming with gnats.  "The same five officers at _each_ murder scene."

"Yeah, pretty sure, who else would --" 

"Covering a young killer's tracks.  Why?"

"What?"  Moore collapses back into his chair. 

"Whose face would _forensics_ save, Moore!"

"No idea, but --"

Sherlock's eyes widen.  "Think!"

"What?"

"A father!  Not just any father.  Ah!"

"Forensics?  They're a solid bunch, they are.  I don't know where you're going with this, but."

" _You do_.  The Chief Inspector's... _solid bunch_?  Yes!  The face that matters most.  To keep a scandal at bay.  They've gone too deep into it to stop, now.  The child will be taken away quietly, the killings stop.  Yes.  Yes!  They're cleaning _too_ well, however...."

"Do you -- know -- what you're saying!  Jack's a friend." Moore is pale, nostrils quivering.

"Does that make me wrong?" Sherlock retorts.

"I'd -- put the idea out of my head.  Holmes, Jack would _not_ \--"

Sherlock leaps up.  "Time to put it in any head that will listen to you!"

"Holy mother of God."  Moore glances around the room. 

"'Tomorrow matters'," Sherlock states with a little hiss.  His face drops.  "Today even more.  _Don't_ bring my name into it, however."

"They'd listen sooner if I did so."

"Don't."

The two men stare at each other until the elder glances away with a hum.  "Holy.  I have to think.  Holmes, if you're wrong."

"And no, you don't need a drink, for God's sake man, _think_.  The evidence is all there, precisely _where it's missing_!  All along.  Call.  It.  In."

"Got to play this right.  Who to tell.  If you're wrong...."

"You'll blame it on someone's slipping mind and set the Jopp woman on my trail.  It'll be a riot, she'll have her story.  But I'm not wrong about the motive, that's enough, to starting looking for cracks.  Someone _will_ crack.  Get word where it will be heard!  Nnnngh, has to be!  Ah!"  Sherlock rubs his hands together.  He is growing more manic inside than he's been in months.  "Coffee?"  _John, I love you._

***

Carlton Parsons is noted at the doorway to Alex's building on Great Peter Street; it is just after nineteen-hundred hours.

"Move along, sir," he hears.

"I'm not here to see Alex," Carly answers. He is disappointed by that fact, above all, but calmly stays on point with the largest of the 'Anthonies', whose bulk alone would nullify any hope of reaching the gleaming brass panel of intercom buttons at his back.  "I need to talk to your supervisor.  Mr. Holmes.  As soon as possible."

"No, sir," Anthony replies.

"We both know --"

"Mr. Parsons, I have to ask you to be on your way," the guard insists, hands already raised to waist height.

Carly steps back and waves his hands over his head, peering over at the cameras on the building across from them both.  "Moving things right along," he mutters.  "Tell Mr. Holmes I asked, I need to have a word, that's all.  Good night."

Mycroft indulges him perhaps twenty minutes later, meaning to cut short any further attempts (or thoughts on the matter, for his own part).   _Hands empty, no parcel or file visible on his person._

"A summary, I'm away from the office," Mycroft begins drily, holding the mobile against his shoulder so he can better watch his Alexander, who is seated across from him, in a black t-shirt and pants.  He is reading through his journal and nibbling on a pen that he has set between his lips.  He makes a quick note and pulls one knee up, reminding Mycroft suddenly of the flexibility in his hips; the elder Holmes observes a little gap in the fabric between his legs, framing a single, tiny freckle on the pale skin just behind his right testicle.   

"I have something for you, in the light of the agreement we have?  Mr. Holmes?  And I'd rather do it in person," the photographer explains, his voice nearly as welcome -- as a  -- _mouldy scone_.

 _Concerning Alexander_ , Mycroft deduces (wastefully, he thinks), and exhales.  _Your timing fails us.  Without fail, imagine that_.  "The day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning, at the earliest," he answers.  _Blond, even there, a surprise that day, a remarkable mutual --_

"Yeah.  I -- understand," Carly replies; Mycroft hears over the line that the photographer is clicking a biro open and closed in his fingers, repeatedly.  "Can't it be any sooner?"

"You may deposit it with someone else if you wish to have it...out of your hair?"

"With all due respect," Carly says, exasperation finally reaching his voice, "I don't think I should.  Look.  There are pictures of Alex."

"Evidently.  Someone will be in touch...."

"How will I know I can _trust_ them?" the photographer retorts.

"You will.  Goodbye," Mycroft says, ringing off with flick of a brow. 

"Is everything all right, darling?" Alex asks.  He has let his thigh drop open.  _So little material, inopportunely covering it all_. Mycroft's head suddenly craves _reduction_.  Love.  Reassurance.

"You are, as ever, irresistible," he says, holding Alex's eyes with his own, sending the force of myriad volatile thoughts in a look that draws his soft, blinking lover to him; unknowingly completing a simile in Mycroft's head, the artist bumps into him as he tries to settle in as close as he can.

"To whom, though?" Alex asks, smiling and wriggling as he fits himself in between Mycroft's legs.  He sets his journal aside with a laugh.  "Not finished with you," he remarks, perhaps to the book.  "Oh...."

A priority message tone has pinged by Mycroft's hand.  "Forgive me for taking this, now," he says, picking up the phone.  "One moment and no more." 

He learns that 'Reuben Wright' has just left England. 

Alex's voice rejoins his thoughts, "Darling, you were going to tell me...?" 

"Yes.  I was.  And you _are_ \-- I dare say --" Mycroft leans forward to kiss several places on Alex's head, mouthing at his hair, borrowing another moment, and no more, to arrange his own features.  _What have you left us and from whom_...  "-- to...anyone who has the benefit of seeing you, or recalling you, whether they understand what you are...and few can..." 

"Your heart is pounding like mad.  Ginger kitty."

"Ah, that it is."

"Mmmm.  What makes it so...wild?"

"Thoughts of you in Venice, for one."

"Mmm?  Venice!  Really?"

"Yes.  A meeting, and I count on your company, it coincides with -- the twelfth of October." 

"Lovely!  We'll have some time alone, though?"

"Certainly less than I'd originally planned, we'll organise a second afternoon of sightseeing for you instead.  Would you care to watch an artisan bookbinder at work?  A Florentine family, acquaintances, occasionally accept a guest at their second workshop in Venice, say the word."

"Oh goodness, of course."  Alex wraps his arms around Mycroft's neck and rests his cheek near his throat.  "Then later on, a gorgeous blowjob, while out on the lagoon. Say the word."

"Alexander...."

***

Sherlock moves over John as they find a favoured rhythm together; they are kissing and whispering (names, bits of names, asking for more); Sherlock grinds long strokes against John's cock with his own.  John is on his back, a leg slung over his husband's thigh.  "God," he moans, his voice breathy and hungry. "Ah -- god!"  

"John," Sherlock whispers, "please touch -- " and reaches for John's hand, setting it behind himself.  John strokes him from perineum and back, tickling his hole without trying to press in.  _Fuck, I'd_.  

"Sher -- beautiful.  So close, right now, I, Jesus!"  (Sherlock kisses harder.)  John turns his face away just long enough to groan, "Ahhhh, God!  Ahh, yeah -- ah -- hmmmm...." and looks for Sherlock's mouth just in time to enjoy the feel of Sherlock pausing after a stroke, covered in him already, followed by a loud sigh as he moans through an orgasm that seems to yank him forward by a thread.  John's stomach and rumpled t-shirt are covered in spots of come to the sternum, as far as he can tell, and he laughs and turns his eyes toward the back of the sofa as Sherlock pants and drops his head just over him.  "Why didn't we before.  Get one.  Why.  Best fucks ever, here," John mumbles.  "Best.  You okay, love?"

"Yes.  Very."

"What, though."

Sherlock sniffs and smiles.  "Oh, nothing.  Solved.  It.  Earlier."

"Solved it!  The -- case?  Jesus Christ."  John giggles.  "Can't think.  Good, love!  Good!  That's good."

"The son of the -- John?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, soldier.  And I'm almost sorry for the cigarettes."

"You maniac."

"Well."

"I love you.  God.  I can't move.  Heh.  Kind of a mess, here.  Help me out?  You solved -- amazing.  Amazing, you.  You'll tell me.  How.  Hmmmm.  Good." 


	14. As it has happened

_A single stone_ is tossed into play by Mycroft, as a diffident Carlton Parsons accepts doing the wedding portraits for a contact from the diplomatic service (a creditable person, in crisis); Mycroft reminds the photo-j that "clothing shoots" and award-gleaning images of families hoisting colourful, ceremonial litters could be argued _analogous to wedding photography_.  Moreover, he demurs, Alex requires a current photograph:  Parsons shall take it, then hand over (as he must) all his images of 'Lexie', again, including those which have (apparently) been left by one hastily-departed Ruslan in a folder.  

"Unfortunately, I'm short-handed," Carly grumbles, unusually on point, to which Mycroft responds that he shall have Alex for two hours -- the artist wants to take communion at a holy mass, and the closed-cathedral wedding is discreetly guarded; there are no more than eight guests expected. 

When Alex is told of his activities for a Saturday afternoon, he says (because he ought to) that he is glad enough to help Carly, who is brusque with subjects and prefers the anonymous streetside. Alex's kindliness redeems him, more than he is aware, for the inability to hand over the right lens or take light readings of the frail bride's suit in time for them to be useful.  ("You might hold your flowers lower, near your waist," Alex reminds the lady, who is perhaps ten years his elder, "You've nothing to hide.  And kiss him slowly!") 

After several thus-arranged shots, Alex is given leave to wander away and look at the floral arrangements; he is drawn even further aside by a white-haired gentleman with a curious crook in his nose and a very large, carved ruby tiepin.  "You can sing," he remarks in a thickly accented whisper.

"Sorry, I -- say again?" Alex answers, blinking and leaning in to hear.

"The photographer tells us that yes."

"Yes, well.  I -- know traditional choral pieces...."  _And all the Gilbert and Sullivan you could ever want._

"We have no singer for the mass.  She has not arrived and we start in a few minutes!  What can you sing after the vows are spoken?"

"Whatever the lady was planning to sing, I can sight read," Alex replies, and bites his lips.  "Perhaps something more?"

"I will pay you, whatever you want.  For your fatigue."  The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a stack of Euros and Swiss Francs, held in a heavy, golden clip.

"No need."

"We will compensate you."

"No, I insist you do not," Alex replies, flinching at the sound of his own heart in his ears.  He has not sung publicly in an age.  "That is not why I am here," he says, wondering immediately how Mycroft would have reacted to that 'introduced' ambiguity.

The man nods and a shadow at the corners of his mouth sends a chill through Alex's lower back.  "For the bride.  She -- my sister, she is very sick."  The man turns away, removing a kerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his lips.  He makes a small gesture, which several people seem to acknowledge, including the guard, 'Anthony', who remains closest to the doors of the cathedral.

"So, you're the one?  Up this way?"  A young organist with severe bobbed hair appears and gives a new voice to the odd scene. Alex finds himself relieved for the interruption. She leads him in a spiral ascent to a dark, wooden loft at the back of the church, where the artist's view of the wedding party becomes abstracted -- framed in the colours spread across the benches and floors, the persons dwarfed by enormous columns and vaults.  "Oh, Lord --" he blurts, realising it is irrelevant to explain how he'd hoped to take communion when he cannot even imagine how he'd take the stairs down, alone.    

"You can shut your eyes if you need to, they can't see you," the girl replies. 

"I suppose you get used to this," Alex remarks.  "You're a brave one."

"It's only a job," the girl answers, pointing to slim stack of what appears to be music, headed by _Ave Maria,_ in the arrangement by Schubert.  "Erm.  They wanted it in Latin."

"That's perfectly fine."  The artist's mouth is suddenly soaked in pill-bitter saliva as he lifts the pages and examines them, one by one.  "Aha.  Of course," he bluffs, to the repeated mentions of "H", red rubber stampings, a facsimile and a list of dates and locations.  He straightens and glares down at the party once more.  He will drop these in with whatever Carly has brought, he decides, but first he shall sing his heart out, for the bride.  

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, ora, ora pro nobis, ora, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis, in hora mortis nostrae.  In hora, hora mortis nostrae, in hora mortis nostrae.  Ave Maria!_

***

"Is there any pain now?" Mycroft asks, shifting his back against the sofa-arm; he continues at stroking long arcs along the greyed side of Alex's head. 

"No, no, far better.  Carly gave me something," Alex says, shifting closer with a sigh.

Mycroft studies him.  "Don't think of it."

"What should I be thinking of, then?" Alex asks.

 _Yourself, sated and laughing._  "An apt question," Mycroft says.

 _Very, kitty._ "This day was so long, wasn't it?  How were things, on a Saturday?  Has anything changed since I was there with you?"

"Nothing whatsoever, and in the absence of your personal charms...."

"Oh, darling." 

"The proceedings were unpardonably cluttered with trivia, outdated for the most part, once the matters in Kyrgyzstan had been conferred on.  You know which."

"Mhm."

"Your thoughts?"

"The lady and her new husband -- Gordana, was she?  That was so moving, I can't stop thinking about them.  The experience of this day, to them.  When I was singing -- you know, I sang, they asked?  Oh, yes, you spoke to Anthony -- sorry.  Of course, he had to lead me down again, the stairs were quite steep.  Seeing these people in the throes of an event -- before she can no longer act on her own -- oh, dear, I'm starting again." 

"Go on, please."

Alex turns his face against Mycroft's warm stomach.  "And I wanted to tell you how I love you and how everything I was seeing and doing was -- because _I am here_.  I hope you know that in spite of some things I have said lately that -- I'll always be yours, I still don't know how you can stand this, I'm sorry, this sounds terrible aloud --"

"Alexander, there is no burden --"

"You're very tense, darling."

"I'm listening, however, continue."

"Mmnngh."  Alex has curled even more tightly in response to the strokes over his temples.  "I have two questions."

"Go on."

"First, do you resent Carly.  Maybe that sounds too general...."

"And occasionally I've resented him, generally.  You'd not have made such a terrible will and testament.  You'd likely have found happiness many years sooner," Mycroft considers.  "No, never mind, I cannot resent him, after all.  He can live."

"Kitty!  The second question, would --"

"I have never regretted it."

Alex's eyes start to burn at hearing that; he closes them.  "One more thing, Carly struggled today, you needn't have asked him to take that photograph of me, I'd have gone to a studio."

"No." 

"Have you seen it?  Taken from quite a distance, because of my -- nose, I suppose.  He said that if it were closer --"

"Indeed."

"Do you like it?"

"It will do."

"Oh."

Mycroft pauses and glances away, "That was not an insult.  For myself, I prefer another sort of image, with the look of -- ahm."

"Mm?"

"Abandoned cares."  _No longer likely in the presence of Mr. Parsons._

Alex leans away enough to look straight up Mycroft's own nose, and more.  He smiles broadly, "How would I achieve _that_ sort of look?"

"With care, Alexander."

"Your most natural element is doing things for me 'with care'," Alex replies, eyes already glittering.  "You're getting my hopes up and that is a dangerous thing.  How can we go about abandoning cares?  I'm game, I've plenty of cares."

 _Indeed, attempting to hide a number of them._  "I would like a kiss, to start."

"Mhm." 

"And when you are calmer, please take down your trousers, shall we say, for another."

"Oh.  Oh, a thousand.  Let's, I need you.  What, kitty, you're --"

"I am attempting to believe my own fortune -- ah, perhaps we'll wait --"

"Let me get you out of these?"

"Ahhmm -- though -- not here --"

"Don't you like to get hard in my mouth?"

"Y - es, I do.  _Upstairs_ , please."

"No need.  Oh, all right.  Help us, then, I'm hopeless with stairs." 

"Alexander."

"Braces, too, darling, we won't get far with those on.  Are you blushing?"

"A kiss --?"

"Button flies, brilliantly made, thank Carter for five little favours done, ah, there we are."

"Madness...we'd best _reach the upstairs_."

"You've noticed.  Oh, you're well on your way, aren't you.  Mmm."

"It's your manner." 

"Really?  You're making me this way, ginger kitty."

"Ah, good.  That we are in agreement --" 

"You've trapped yourself, admit it!" 

"I have." 

"Trapped yourself." 

"And admitted it."

There is a charged silence that ends with the artist's laughter.  "Ah ha ha!  You know where I'd like you, kitty."

"I -- ah --"

"Oh, and you're all closed up...." 

"Alexander -- pay attention to your feet."

"Hmmm.  The blue room, that little bed, it's like mine, mm?  Only one button, then, for the road.  I should walk up more?  Honestly." 

At the top of the staircase, as Alex takes Mycroft even tighter by the waist and turns him decisively toward the "blue" room rather than the man's own, he remarks, "I'm afraid you won't have a chance to take off my pants."

"No?"

"Had you counted on it?  Fair to warn you, then."

"I'll cut them apart," the elder Holmes answers coolly, as though the tools were at hand; he has in mind his teeth but is fraught enough to forego explaining that much.

"Ah ha ha!  _Will_ you?" Alex is already lilting, only to chuckle a moment later, "Whatever for."

"For us both," Mycroft coughs out, the need for decency teetering gutter-ward.

"When I'm wearing none tonight.  You're slipping, darling."

"It appears I am."

Alex titters, "You wanted me to kiss you...mm?"

"Please." 

By now Alex is unable to stand still, so he leads them instead to the edge of the small, metal-framed bed.  It is made up, as usual, in the sort of florid bedding Alex prefers, and while it is a dropping ground for too many pillows, they perfectly frame the one person that Mycroft has scarcely ever been able to resist, sometimes for softness or his dizzying honesty, other days for a particular sort of doting that tumbles into intimacy as readily as they are tangling in each other's arms, now; they have come to rest on their sides, the better to reach for each other's favoured spots like teenagers. 

"Tell me what I can do for you."  The artist is breathless, as he re-opens Mycroft's flies. 

Alexander would have far more pleasure with someone else, at least in that regard, Mycroft knows.  For his part, he'd not have found a man as indulgent and gentle, in _those_ years, when the thought of being bent over had sometimes excited him -- ironically, for its noncompliance.  "I am in your hands," he says, the literalness lost on Alex.

"Hnnnn, you lovely man, but where -- where shall I kiss you the longest?"

Though Mum's bed is not-the-place-for-such-acts, and while he is afraid he is unprepared and certain he is too-well-lit, Mycroft hears himself say, rather luridly, "Over my left shoulder."

 _And so it happens_.  There is a remarkable moment when Mycroft's eyes, turned close to the wallpaper, have just been tracing over a fragment of roses and stylised bundles of leaves, and he understands he has lost enough awareness to have missed when he'd begun moving, when he'd foregone a certain protective ritual in his head; it has become a chase, toward one of the most pleasurable and bizarre sensations he can remember.  In the dissonance of fullness and spikes of pleasure he doesn't know what is about to happen, until he does -- after Alex coaxes him from his side to his back, and kisses his mouth and face even more determinedly than usual, finding what might have been more than sweat around his eyes, when it is all over.  "You've no idea how brilliant that was, you were the most fantastic, I love you so much I could give you that whenever you like, whenever, you see?  You give me that nearly every time, why wouldn't I leap into your lap practically every night, if you'd only let me, really?  You can't worry about a thing, we'll have a lovely rest, now, don't mind this, I'm just so happy, you know how I get.  Oh my God.  But how can I not.  I have the most brilliant, caring man in the world."

It still takes more effort than it should to speak of such things, but the elder Holmes manages to reply, wholeheartedly, "So have I."


	15. Implicating

"You said you're busy," John says to Sherlock from his armchair, turning a page in the officer's memoirs he'd received from Alex. He has begun rationing the book and fully intends to give it another, closer read as soon as he runs out of entries.  Sherlock has taken an interest in it, too, and insists on listening to it being read -- as though it were closer to hearsay, he says, which suits the style of the volume.

"No longer," Sherlock sighs showily. "False lead.  The torso in question had been in the water for three months, unrelated.  Read?"

John blows out a puff, "Sure you want me to?"

"John."

"All right.  All right.  I was hoping --"

" _Hoping_ ," Sherlock mutters to himself.   _Hoping for a story._

John does not accept the bait, if that is what it is, and stands from his armchair, book still hooked on his palm.  Sherlock puts his head up first, and then slouches over the kitchen table top he has occupied for well over three hours, laptop humming noisily, likely in need of a good cleaning. 

"Come here," John says, licking his lips and indicating a spot at his side with a nod.  "Hey."

"Mm?"  Sherlock pushes himself out of the chair and stretches his spine until his shoulders tremble.  "Ehh, hardly matters, not pressing."

"You don't like a false lead but nobody else is even touching these cold cases, who knows why," John assures his man, aware that his comments are being assessed with a wary eye and a weary head.  "And I was about to say, if you'd let me?"

"Yes?"

"I'll read this in bed.  Take a break, let's spend some time?"

***

 

_Four of the soup packets were passed about; tho not supper it was after twenty-two on the day we lost Tulles and Vince, both passing peacefully after many hours in the open.  Plenty of sniping had kept us at bay; the water was cut off for nearly a day and we feared poisoning.  The Germans had not the means or had been every bit as busy as we had.  Maywater stoked the largest fire we'd dared light in weeks and the men, wet to the bone, dried off merrily before the details.  Newton sang a last tune (days later, he was shot through the cheek, tongue mutilated, six teeth shattered, and he shall never speak another word).  Some joined in.  Tulles' gallant reconnoitre not left untold as I saw to that.  Leonard appeared as promised and when I talked at unmeasured length his face never wavered.  The cover of night brought relief from the horrors mounting in number.  We spoke of that ever-growing debt to those fallen or marked to fall.  The shudder at these words, which could be felt when his first kisses reached my own mouth, was not quick to pass this time.  It was soon an embrace of --_

 

"This bloody thing," John coughs, nodding to himself, or to the book, perhaps. 

John had started from a chapter back and soon both men had found themselves pressed against each other, not meeting each other's eyes over the pages.  In the brief silence that follows Sherlock removes his fingers sheepishly from the flies of John's jeans.  "Or I'll take them off," John says to himself, "might as well."

Sherlock furrows his brows.  "Because?"

"Tired as hell today."

"Oh."

"What.  Oh, hey.  Not that you're not -- hey, there."

"Mm."  Sherlock sets a hand on John's stomach, letting his thumb settle in at the navel, hoping to see the book set on the night table (which it is, now, with care) and that John will decide to slide down, turn his way, and accept a stroke to his head and a kiss.  Sherlock plans to make it wet, and direct, the kind of contact that John will know the meaning of, and that he'll want to answer.  If he moves closer, shifts his hips in anticipation of Sherlock's hands, sets his knee just so, reaches over for a bit of fabric to worry, perhaps open, he will get yet another kiss, one meant to open his lips.  Should he catch himself and sigh the way he tends to, when he feels love, and remembers -- as he should, not out of shame or a need to correct himself, but for -- how one man wants his every breath returned through his, preferably in kisses and words, both, _may he answer_.  Sherlock is poised for almost any response, his stomach jumpy after the descriptions in the book of smells and sounds in the Great War, though in all appearances he is neutral, at John's side, even the knot at his waist non-committal, and he wants it this way, so that he does not give away all at once how much he depends on kisses, sounds, and touches for a spot of sanity.   _A window in the clouds_. 

John is not sliding down, yet.   _Annoying._  "Kiss me," Sherlock suggests firmly, before he can control the sound of his voice. 

"Sorry?" John's eyes snap over to Sherlock's.  "Yeah.  Come on, mmmmgh.  Oh --"

(Their mouths are already open from the start.)  The kisses are hard and harsh on the lips though the blood flows quickly, not unlike heated honey, thinks Sherlock, further down.  "John," Sherlock pants, breaking one kiss and turning his head away a bit.  "I liked the story."

"Thinking about them, eh.  Me too."

"Yours are preferable though this -- well.  Real," Sherlock remarks, pressing his cock against John's leg several times, and listening to the hiss of John breathing out through his nose.  

"Yeah, I.  God."  John is catching up.  "Hmmm, liked listening to me reading it, though?"

"Yes."

"You're always able to bring me back."

"From?"

"Wherever things are going, sometimes I don't even want to be thinking about all that and it starts again.  So glad you're mine, you always get it."

John scoots down, at last, and puts an arm around Sherlock, who remarks in a moment, "Always?" 

If John hadn't known him so long, he could have missed a certain triumphant wriggle and barely suppressed grin from Sherlock, but he _does not._   Instead, John growls, gripping at Sherlock's back, taking in the feel of those plush lips, and offers his collarbone and shoulder to them with a groan.  He pulls open several of his own shirt buttons and shucks the shirt over his head.  "Yeah, you're getting it all if you want it.  Whatever you need."

"I want to," Sherlock mumbles, cupping John's arse cheek in his palm. 

John jerks open his jeans by a button and the zip and lets Sherlock do the rest.  "How do you always, seriously.  Love you.  Take that, yeah, off.  Ah, god.  See."

Things happen quickly at Sherlock's side, in his hands, and John can hardly bring himself to open his eyes at the first knock -- indeed, at their front door -- as he rubs a hand along Sherlock's thigh.

"John," Sherlock hisses, "get it."

"Get."

"Get it!"

"Wh --"

" _The door_."

Another knock follows, on the outermost door.  "The fuck," John growls, trying to stuff his cock up into the band of his pants, which he'd got down around his knees.  "Fuck you, whoever the _fuck_."

 _No gun_ , Sherlock wants to tell him, but says, "It's for me."

"Sher --" John shakes his head and rubs his lips reluctantly.

"Most likely Sergeant Trent," Sherlock replies.

"What?" John leaps onto his feet.  "Oh, shit.  Expecting them, were you."

"Yes.  No.  Not in so many --"

"Anything you'd like to tell me, love?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes and glances away.

There is yet another firm knock.  John stalks over and unlocks both doors.  "Good...evening, can I help you," he asks, eyes dark, nostrils flaring at the sight of two police officers.

"Is Sherlock Holmes on the premises?"

"And this is about...?" John asks.

"I repeat, is --"

Sherlock's voice breaks in from the bedroom doorway.  "Timing."

One of the officers steps forward.  "You do not have to say anything, it may --"

"Harm my defence if I do not mention when questioned something which I later rely on in court?  And what evidence am I supposed to have?  Aside from what's written all over you, that he's been found --?" Sherlock asks, meeting the officers half way in the room, his only apparent act of compliance being the way he is keeping his hands visible. John, for his part, clenches his fists at his sides.  "Ah, he is alive though, by a hair."

"Who?  Who the -- what is this?  Can you explain this?" John growls, moving in the direction of what seems to be an arresting officer.  The second officer looks ready to detain _him_ , as well, if he moves another inch.   He hears that Sherlock, who looks keenly interested but seems exasperatingly unconcerned for himself, is wanted for questioning in conjunction with the suspicious circumstances surrounding a suicide attempt by one Michael Moore, who from the sound of things is a retired police officer, himself.  John is floored.  " _How_ ," he huffs, but with no wonder left.  " _Who_."  It's hard to hear much more, as his head hurts terribly.  "Sherlock," he intones quietly, though his wide eyes betray his rage, "It's -- if -- I'll call --"

"In Venice," Sherlock shrugs.

"He's in Venice.  _Perfect_."

***

_We wish to condole with you, on the loss --_

Alex is experiencing his first Venetian mid-morning, though he has yet to take in the atmosphere of the city; there is a rainfall keeping him and Mycroft indoors.  Regardless of the weather (and water, already gurgling up through the drains along their street), they will emerge long enough to take a sleek, polished water "cab" and visit the H. Consul's office before one o'clock on unspecified business.  Several cards are to be hand-delivered to families residing in Italy, apparently; Alex is composing them aloud and then writing them out as Mycroft grumbles at his left and marks up a draft of a resolution he disapproves of.  These same cards had been scattered across the floor in Alex's bedroom at Great Peter Street the night before, when Mycroft had come on the pretext of helping him pack; Mycroft's nerves had been smoothed by "velvet" methods of coercion.  This room (Mycroft's, not theirs to share) has an attractive bed, beneath a window that overlooks a small canal and a square with a pale marble church, outside of which four yellow boats (ambulance gondolas, as Alex refers to them) bob loosely in a line.  Alex would gladly admire the view from atop his ginger kitty's thighs.  He gulps back a remark to that effect.  It is not the right moment to mention one's hunger, he decides.

 _Sherlock,_ the artist composes in his heart, as he lets his eyes settle on a point beyond the lace curtains in the large, heavily barred window _, I've brought them to you because frankly I've nobody -- Sherlock, I have several questions and you are the only one I can -- Sherlock, dear, you will forgive me for putting you in such an awkward position though I've no choice, it concerns him and what he has done and we must.  No.  Sherlock, for the love of God, tell me how I ought to understand this, can these papers, for instance, be real?  They seem quite genuine.  I received them.  They were forwarded, to me.  These fell into my hands, perhaps you can explain how best to -- I have several questions and you are the only one -- Gracious Mother._

Alex frowns, and writes:  _We wish to condole with you, on the loss you have sustained; may we express our deepest appreciation for the distinguished services of Sir Charles Nelson Mattley II --_

"Rewrite it, omitting the comma you placed after the first 'you'," Mycroft suddenly says to Alex, as he has apparently been following the progress of the writing through the scraping sounds of the fountain pen. 

"Oh.  Oh, yes," Alex replies, mechanically reaching for a blank, ivory card from the half-dozen or so at the edge of a lovely hardwood desk which he would have taken for a large toilette table.  "I adore you, kitty, I'm nearly done," he says quietly.

Mycroft would very much like to know why the heaviness in Alex's mood seems to concern _him_ when the matter of separate rooms has been clarified, the itinerary agreed upon, and a certain division of tasks accepted without a hitch.  He raises his eyes from his papers, only to see the soft crown of Alex's head as he is bent over the new card, biting his lips sadly, pen looping over the worst of all messages:  another good man has passed.  Something in him starts to ache, at the base of his throat.  There is nothing more important to him than this little one, here, he thinks, and takes a deep breath.  "An allegory comes to mind," he begins, "of two people paying tribute to the night sky."

"Oh?" Alex replies.

"Upon which the stars mark shining moments in life, asserts one of them," Mycroft continues, "though the other says that he'd seen them all long before."

"Had he, in fact?" 

"Yes.  Though he'd felt that the void had been -- primary in importance.  A comprise is then reached in which the stars are acknowledged as shared hope for many such moments."

"Oh, that's quite pretty."

"Alexander, you'd be wise to disregard what I'm braying this morning."  Mycroft has the rare urge to kick himself.

"My dear man," Alex murmurs, setting the pen aside and leaning forward, earnestly.  "You mustn't drink so early, even if it is Italy, and they serve it."

"I have not been served a drop," Mycroft replies, eyebrow lifted.

"All the better," Alex tells him, blushing.  "Kitty, I'm sorry."

"Ah, and we'll have dinner together this evening and a short walk.  No gondola ride.  It's one of the last warm nights we'll have for some time --"

"Here's hoping you're talking about the weather."

"Mm." Mycroft sniffs; it is a very small laugh, but it is enough.

"Here, it's ready for the signature." Alex glances at his hands in his lap and seems to be studying the gold ring on his finger.  "Does anyone imagine how many others you'd be able to forge!"

"No. Some secrets must remain with you," Mycroft replies, blinking at an unexpected flash of anxiety in Alex's face.


	16. Tests

_...at the base of the spine, divided into planes of muscle, and beyond them the trunks of quick legs, this time spread apart and stock-still, not pressed by weight of daily trials into the bedclothes but by my own body.  A glorious exchange of burden, Leonard said when I remarked on it.  My heart rested and his rested with me.  It was in this mood of repose that he suddenly turned, easing my arm aside; he then revealed himself greatly awakened by my attentions.  He held out his arms and our embrace only ended after other completions, and many of his kisses before and after that I stopped, for breaths, as I had at last recalled...._

John flips back two pages in the officer's memoirs for a re-read and squirms in his armchair.  The outside door opens with its familiar, never-oiled, falling sound and closes out a small whistling current of wind.  He seizes up fast enough that his lower back sends an angry signal to the back of his knee:  he recalls that Sherlock had left his keys -- _not that he even needs them, I guess._ Sherlock affirms by sweeping in, eyebrows up as if in reply to challenges that John has yet to voice (he sniffs instead of commenting, licking his lips as he looks his husband up and down).  "Are...we all right, then?"

"Wholly," Sherlock replies, letting his tongue show through the word, while pulling a scarf from his neck. 

"Uhmmm.  That going to happen again?" John says, shutting the war memoir volume carefully on a scrap of a newspaper column.

Sherlock briefly makes eye contact.  "Who knows.  I _need_ that," he says, gesturing with his chin toward the paper slip, as he shucks off his coat and hangs it by the door.  "That, John, not the --"  (Sherlock's brows drop.)  "You're aroused."

"Was.  Maybe."

"Until your partner returned unexpectedly from the _police station_ ," Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes though a shrug to the vexed seems sufficient.  "How one is altered...mm."  

"Not like anyone's been dragging you in for questioning, lately.  Just saying."

"Mostly waiting.  Six questions, Michael Moore was late for a card game, found by a friend, that in itself is interesting.  _Friend_.  Cards."

"Found, how."

"Slumped in his favourite armchair," Sherlock gestures.

John sits up even straighter.   

"Taken up drinking again, washed down a bottle of pills with whiskey, left a note with an apology, my fingerprints were all over the other side of the table.  They bothered to check."

"Not dead, then?"

"He had his reasons to want to be, best left withheld for the time being."  Sherlock seems to indicate 'listening', kicks off his shoes and pushes them together again with his foot.  "We need to wait."

"He's sick, or?"

"He was poised to bring down a chief inspector.  Lost his nerve."

"What?  Who?  How --"

"Like I said, we wait."

"Your brother?  Does he know you were taken in?"

"Who cares."

"He hasn't called, so."

"So?" Sherlock unexpectedly kneels in front of John's knees.  "Mmmm.  On to better things.  You've been seated here since -- just before forgetting to drink the contents of that mug and you've read very little of the book.  Finishing the newspaper," Sherlock says, taking John's right hand and holding it to his nose.  "The now-wrinkled clipping, thank you, removed and replaced at least twice, look at the direction of the creasing.  Your lack of reading progress...is promising."

John sighs.  _Right, love_.  He looks over at the volume, "Leonard, again.  'Completions', you know, they're getting to see more of each other, now, and it's going to be hard to watch anything come between them, if that's where it's going."

"It is."

"Have you already read it?"

"Of course I haven't.  What for."

"Supposedly they both survived and lived in the same city until the Second World War.  Not sure I'd want to carry on with it, if."

"John."

"Yeah."

"John."

"Hmm.  Oh.  Oh, yeah.  As you were."

"Nnnnnngh, yes."

***

"As soon as the sun is out the water has the most incredible colour, doesn't it, like a malachite green, and the contrast with the russets on the soaked brick-work, and ruined foundations, how they're soaked, but in layers of colour, gorgeous.  What are they built on, though?  Stone foundations?  No."

"Oak, or larch piles," Mycroft says, "driven into the clay, well below the layers of silt washed in by the sea waters.  That silt has become one with the wood -- petrifying it rather than allowing oxidation to destroy it as one would expect.  Not a rapid process by any means, over 500 years.  By analogy, I should say I was reminded today, little has changed in the upper echelons, among the families, when you examine their properties and commodities, over nearly as much time.  Amusing." 

"I for one can't believe this magical place is still standing.  Not that I'd wish anything else but it's delicate, tenuous.  And the little watery garages, for the boats, or when you look there's a whole floor of water usually, no windows left, just water on a whole level, and above all that you'll see the occasional window done up in old lace -- and the boats, how they transport everything that way, even -- even a cooker, I saw, was being delivered in a gondola, liable to sink from the weight, were the -- rower not as thin as he was -- " Alex snickers, "and they were shouting, lifting it to a third storey window on pulleys, imagine.  That was right before I found what I did, the place with all the little mosaics I mentioned earlier before they called -- they haven't called you again, have they?  No?  Anyhow, I don't know why but they refused to sell a pair of little cuff buttons.  It was unexpected.  In fact, the shop was very much like a museum in character, as fine as any collection I've seen at our galleries, every case filled with coral, or enamel, very old Murano glass, and so on, it was a lovely old place."

"A pity, then," Mycroft replies.  _Another sort of showroom.  A front._   "Never mind that they refused you.  Can you describe them?"

"Who?"

"The buttons?"

"Oh.  Ha, I doubt we would find any others like them.  They were tiny architectural scenes in micro mosaic, no larger than this," Alex says, reaching over and running a finger pad over one of Mycroft's nails, "set in dark carnelian frames and tiny filigree borders of old gold, but really, I shouldn't have been so easily taken in.  It's that I love old things, they play on my heart, if that makes any sense, and this entire city, oh mercy, I adore it all," Alex sighs, and turns onto his back.  He carries on, "Something I love, kitty...mmm, this pillow is glorious."

"We'll arrange to bring it back to England," the elder Holmes replies, feeling that Alex is wiggling deeper into the down of it; Mycroft stares up at the way their arched ceiling vanishes into blackness; it is nearly as old as the one in (their) preferred rooms in Oxford.  His mind serves him a memory, of his own mouth pressed into the folds of a crisp, white sheet, his nape warm from contact with Alex's throat. 

"On the bed, you know, I've already got loads of pillows in the blue room, I didn't know where they'd all come from.  Your travels!" Alex laughs. 

"From Canada, which I've yet to visit.  Five of them, should you thrash about and bruise your head or shoulders on the frame, in your sleep.  What do you love, Alexander?"

"Mm?  Oh.  One thing that's always interested me, or at least for a very long time, is how what we know can define us, as you've pointed out, but only inasmuch as we know what to do with it.  You've an exceptional mind, but were you unable to direct it at the right times, I dare say we'd all be in the deepest trouble imaginable.  Well.  I don't think this sounds very original.  How we know what we love and how that should be enough."

"Go on," Mycroft replies.

Alex yawns into his palm.  "I'm sorry.  Anyhow, I had in mind the way love allows us the -- chance to know how best to love _more,_ to use what we know about people we care about.  Oh!  I didn't tell you, about the bindery.  The smells there.  Leather.  Every colour, in stacks, and they were gilding finished volumes with the thinnest sheets of gold, they couldn't even take them off their backing papers -- because they were stored that way, on backing papers in wooden boxes -- and they couldn't move them without using a flat brush -- can you imagine, they instantly ball up by themselves."

"Despite the damp, there is plenty of static electricity, is there not."

"Of course, true.  Piero had a fan brush and to pick up the flakes of gold he'd merely rub it against his knee, first, I suppose to work up a charge.  Aha.  And my newest journal comes from there, doesn't it?  From the Florentine family's workshop?  Now I know how it was made.  They're related, that is, through marriage, Piero and Mauro.  Ah, you know, of course.  I didn't let on -- I mentioned I have one of their books but -- I lied about the colour so they'd not associate us." 

 _Use what we know about people we care about_.  Mycroft tucks that away, with the metaphor of a _pochette_ , to which he adds that of a marked corner.  He is considering its nature ( _frayed, the variety of the pattern allowing it to be turned about, it is unfixed --_ ) when Alex kisses the finger that is stroking his lips and tips his head toward Mycroft's.  "You'll tell me more about what you've seen another time.  You're overexcited, _and_ tired."

"It's not that, it's -- I'd like to see you better, actually." 

"I'd need to be further away," Mycroft tells him. 

The artist sighs and reaches over for a little lamp at his bedside, groping until he finds a switch.  He settles on his side, his head shockingly backlit in a yellow glow that is undeniably halo-like. "Far better!"

"You are a pretty one."

"Mmmm, how is it that you always read my thoughts so exactly," Alex replies sweetly, at such a proximity to Mycroft's face that it is quite impossible to look away, though nobody in his right mind would want to, he thinks.

"I'll take your word."

"You should, you've called my sensibilities a much-needed constant.  Not that yours are inferior, you've even called me pretty.  Ha ha!  'Not merry but I do beguile'."

Something in Mycroft nerves seems to have slipped.  He asks, averting his attention somewhat, "Are you well?"

"Oh, yes," Alex says, "very.  In fact, I had a little cup of coffee at lunch time and I should not have!"

"Ah, Alexander, we'll run through the points for tomorrow before it gets any later, " Mycroft declares. 

"I -- sorry?"

"It won't take long.  Listen, please.  Three key shifts in the usual propaganda machinations observed since July, one of certain impact to a certain power balance in the Baltic region, mainly in Estonia."  The elder Holmes pauses and swallows back a secret (three, in fact) of his own.  "There will be higher military expenditures and the society is being prepared to accept deep cuts.  Tomorrow I intend to suggest putting new counter-measures in motion, it appears that this time using contacts from the opposition's social media could backfire dangerously.  Again.  Please listen.  You will also be in attendance.  As I implied, a quick glance at the state-subsidised entertainment sector...."

 _One is periodically verified, understandable, though trying to a chap's nerves,_ Alex barely stops himself saying aloud, _and wherever he goes he feels like the object of an odd -- shall we call it a diversion?  A game?  When should I have the answers ready?_ "Darling," he interrupts.

"-- A film hastily prepared, or more accurately, edited from existing footage --"

"Tend to a weary man," Alex purrs, curling up closer and nuzzling the softest skin on Mycroft's neck with his nose, before covering the same places in light kisses.

"I beg your pardon?" 

"It's our day.  Was.  I thought so many times about you.  And what you'd have me do." 

This "pillow declaration" is of more import than it appears.  Alex, who has sometimes been forced to combine the pain of breathing with essential arm movements, has learned to talk of uncomfortable subjects in circumstances that may cloud his tells.  Earlier in the day, he had experienced _two_ out-of-the-ordinary encounters (incidents, better put); he cannot bring himself to explain to Mycroft why he considers them undue tests. He has even more papers, one being a copy of a directive with a single phrase crossed through, and others apparently torn from a small notebook, or register book.  _Must you verify how I love you, must you, really?_ This day (which he marks along with the sustained privilege of aging and _surviving_ ) has been all but waived aside by agenda points extended, overrun, or rescheduled.  _Pre-summit table-laying activities in foreign intelligence circles must take precedence in Mycroft's mind, granted_.  "We're flooded in again, so to speak.  And why are you still in a waistcoat, I ask you."

"I may be called out.  And tomorrow -- _ahhmm_ ," Mycroft murmurs, as Alex kisses him next to his mouth and catches his lips in a sweet, but affection-starved lick, that Mycroft is moved to answer.  He gives up just one kiss, at first (as he still has plenty to say).  

"Mmm, shhh.  Remind me why you brought me," Alex says, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's shoulder. 

"I'm not certain how much I can do for you just now," Mycroft says quietly.  "There are distractions." 

"I know and if I take off my trousers I'll make things worse," Alex hums as he kisses Mycroft's neck.  "And you'll have to take off yours, and."

"Alexander --"

"It took me forty minutes to get from my room to yours, why?"

"Forty-four."

"I've kept them aside so we'd have them, but --"

 _Them._ Mycroft blinks.  "Show me."

"You remember the others, when I came home from your brother's, the white ones, very loose, how you couldn't wait, and --"

" _Yes_."

"A bit too open," Alex says, "and I might let you at it again, I've thought of it so many times, how you were fucking them."

"Ah, so -- have I, in fact."

"Yes, you were brilliant.  Like now, take all that off, how can you stand it.  An hour, kitty, let's have a little one.  Delay them, say you can't be disturbed unless it's -- it's -- an orange-four!"

"Impossible.  You are." 

"Do you doubt I am real?"

"I wouldn't dare."  Mycroft smiles, at last, and starts a new, exploring kiss against Alex's chin and lips, enticing another laugh and smile as he plies at the artist's mouth gently with his tongue.  He feels Alex unbuttoning the flies of his own trousers and reaches down for the artist's hip, and with a deep breath runs his fingers over the creations as soon as they come exposed (creations of nature, which has been kind, and of a Jermyn Street tailor, _who needn't touch you to sew for you_ , he reminds himself).  He ends a kiss and lets Alex pull the trousers from his ankles, which deserve lengthy attention themselves, he thinks, considering how best to reach them, and in which configuration he might kiss them.  _Later_. 

"Now," Alex murmurs, though it is not demanding in the least.  He pulls himself up on his knees, placing himself on display.  Even then, still lit strongly from the side by the lamp, it is not immediately obvious that what he is wearing (deep green, matte silk pants) are cut open between the legs.  Mycroft finds, almost accidentally -- a lengthwise slit that runs perhaps ( _no, precisely_ ) 5 inches.  He teases it open and pets Alex's stiffening shaft through it until the man is writhing against his hand, kissing him noisily.  He decides he might better remove his own trousers and pants, for even if he is called away, he _cannot_ present himself, in more and more of a mess, there.  He guides Alex's hand between his own legs and whispers, "I cannot help this, either."

"Why should you," Alex answers, smiling over at Mycroft with his tongue working behind his teeth, breath quick and approaching an involuntary burst of laughter.  "Ha, and if they knew what you want to do, because you'd love to rub off in them if I opened my legs any more, wouldn't you?  And were I on top of you?"

" _Y - es_."

"Aren't I the happiest man in Venice, and that is saying something, in a city --"

"All but abandoned by its inhabitants --" Mycroft huffs, trying to focus as he reaches for his phone; he nearly sends a distress signal by mistake, and keys in what he ought to have far sooner.  "Now."

"You're mine, then?  One thing, more," Alex says, grinning as Mycroft eases his knees further apart and takes himself in hand.

"Yes?"

"Happy anniversary.  'Every increment of time, another's treasure, let it be ours'.  You said, though about the speaker in Davos, remember.  But."

Mycroft melts.  "Come here."

His lips are hot and unsteady, so he rubs them over Alex's cheeks and neck as they move past him, again and again, until he agrees he ought to, yes, and pulls the silk aside.  "Stay on your knees but face the mirror across the room," he says, "which I set on the tabletop earlier on.  It had been hung too high, even for you."

" _Kitty_."

"Carefully, please, only a little at a time," Mycroft reminds him, wrapping a hand around one of Alex's ankles; the artist arches his spine, groans, and reaches back to stroke that hand with his fingertips. 


	17. Plain sight

"We can do a _lot_ in two minutes, dear one, my kitty, depending how we start in."  Alex is freshly shaven and free of nicks; he pats his cheeks with a towel and glances up at his Uncle Henry's old watch, which he has set on a shelf above his bathroom sink.  "Grey on nude for the greying nude it is.  Mmmm.  A man can hide in plain sight because people don't look at everything, they can't take it in, rarely care to, so they very likely won't," one of the most protected individuals in London tells his reflection.  "Ech."  For now, the matter of relieving the cramping that is making him nearly double over takes priority over further monologues about bravery and stealth.  He appreciates the irony.  

He catches himself grinding his teeth as he taps a dark grey eyeliner pencil along the edge of his lashes, outer corner to inner.  Fortunately, it wants minimal blending.  He doesn't have time for redos, much less (well, because of) the latest antics of his nervous stomach.  Having a moment to himself on the toilet that he'd gladly use any other way, he reminds himself of his tenuous assumptions:  Mycroft is attending a special hearing; Anthony (One), classically conditioned by routine, will savour a cigarette at the sound of a chime from a distant public clock (as he does every evening at six; Alex even wonders sometimes if it is a signal to someone else); a young lady, who works in a bank just across the way, will politely nod at Anthony when she emerges punctually from her building about halfway through the guard's smoke; Alex counts on Anthony's gaze following her backside as she makes toward the river.   

 _Mercy, can this stop._  

Alex scrubs his hands.  _Oh.  Gloves, absolutely.  Sherlock, it's a bit ridiculous...._ If he has a favourite tool in such things, it is the angled brush he chooses next, to powder the lower edge of his brows in a soft, light brown which he then waxes into arches with a cotton stick.  _A bit ridiculous because my dearest ginger kitty wouldn't send an émigré to a dinner just to meet the very person sent to torture him, there are other ways and you would look for all of them, all, you lovely man, I should go surprise you, ha, you'd be so furious until I got in your trousers. A little blowjob and you could go back to them, all better.  All the better to do the right thing for us, of course you will._ He could do with something lighter around his eyes, but powder is all he's got; a touch of product to hold back his fringe already looks excessive, he reckons, but he lets it be; a careful double coat of mascara is threatening to smudge as he waves at it and tries not to tear up.   _Dear Mum, dearest._ By the time his mouth also starts watering from nerves over what he is about to do, he is in the middle of pulling one of Mycroft's (thus his) favourite black stockings over his right kneecap as carefully as he can with trembling fingers.  They are the sheerest he has, for eyes only.  

***

Sherlock is long at the neighbours'.  John does not like when he does that, old anxieties dying last, but he sniffs and exhales loudly, reasoning that the return of a burner tripod has turned into an offer of biscuits and Earl Grey with honey.  He takes to straightening up; the place is too quiet and the rain too loud; he tosses a few scraps onto the fire grate, one by one.  He crouches on one knee with a grunt and watches the edges curl and blacken, just before a puff of flame takes them from behind.  _Fire is restful.  Puts things to rest.  Burning things already at rest, putting them to rest, or.  What am I even...._

The slam of a car door just in front of the house startles him; he swivels up and away from the fire and stands in the middle of the living room, listening -- he hears an unexpected, hollow clacking of heeled shoes, quickly advancing toward the porch with several breaks in stride, perhaps to avoid the large puddles that always collect between certain stepping-stones.  When a knock comes at the outer door, John steps out into the wind trap in time to see car headlights swing away along the length of their garden and pull out with a loud acceleration, onto the road. 

 _Stuck with you.  Well, shit._   "Hello, yes?" he says, cracking the door open to a figure in a belted, dark raincoat and a hat dripping from the brim; John's eyes run down long, shapely calves to rain-flecked ankles, all in shimmering, silky black.  His breathing eases, though not much -- it is a disinclination toward thinking of his gun.  "Come in, it's nasty out," he says.  "Uhm.  Yeah.  Watch your step, there.  Puddles.  Is your -- whoever that was -- coming back for you?" he asks, shutting the door behind them both without locking it. 

"Not any time soon, I'm afraid."  The voice, while soft, is certainly not unfamiliar. 

John's eyes widen.  " _Bloody_ fuck.  Right."

"Forgive the intrusion, John, and the manner -- "

" -- Wow.  Right, huh.  Ho ho.  Hey, that's."

"Unexpected, I suppose.  Or.  Maybe not?  I'm so sorry."

"It's -- all good.  God."  John swallows hard and looks squarely up into the face of Alexander Nussbaum, who has removed a damp, tweedy black fedora with a broad ribbon trim -- and is now running a thin, gloved hand over his fringe.  He has a broad shawl around his neck in a cowl; his lips are hardly visible behind its bulk.  His eyes are made up well, John thinks,  maybe even better than most women would bother with, but this is not _most women_ , and the effect is already making him warmer in his lower back.  "You all right?  Cold?"

"A bit, it's fine" Alex says, kneading the brim of the hat in his fingers and glancing around the place.  "Is Sherlock here?"

"No, he's -- going to be, he's next door, not -- down the road.  So.  You, uhm.  That's."

"Not how I'd have preferred to do things but I'd never have got away tonight otherwise, it's about -- timing.  I've a meeting coming up." 

"That's, you know, convincing.  Hmm."  John stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Sorry?  Oh!  Do you think so?"  Alex asks, cocking a nicely-done brow at a distant corner of the room.  "Imagine, John, my own guard didn't notice me, and he sees me every day."

"Heh, he'll be -- "   _Sacked by now._  

"What does that say about me, in general, though.  I must be the most boring.  Oh, Lord, sorry, I've got water everywhere."

"No, no." 

Alex brushes at a few water drops rolling up his wrist.  He pulls tight, tapered leather gloves off his long fingers, one by one.  His head is bent and the shawl -- a fine, dark blue wool -- hides the tip of his nose and below.  _I'd never know him on the street, how._   John decides he is losing control of the moment.  "Oh.  And I didn't even take that.  Not paying -- " He shakes his head and gestures at the coat.  "Attention....  Yeah, you're -- going to get cold.  Colder."

"It's fine, the fire's lovely."  Alex unwraps the shawl and unbelts and shucks off his topcoat after a hesitant moment, as he seems accustomed to having it all taken away from behind; he brings it gracefully over one arm and smiles.  Underneath he is wearing a simple dark blue silk, side-tied tunic, possibly just a long shirt.  For all John cares, it is a bloody nice dress, and when he looks more closely (which he cannot stop in time) he makes out a hint of a garter clip.  It occurs to him that he has not seen one on someone (who is not an elderly patient in flesh-toned girdle-wear) in a _long_ time.  The length of which he _will not add up, now_. 

"It's what I had," the artist remarks, setting his hand over his thigh. "That doesn't go toward an explanation.  Ha ha, ahmmm...."

"Don't mind, just."  _Right answer?_   "You know, I just -- I guess I'm thinking more about what you...ehhh, have to do to get out from under -- you know, the guard.  The guard's _eye_."  John strides over to hang the garments near the front door.  _Should shut up._

"Oh, no, it's my first time out of doors in heels," Alex says.  "Since we're being honest.  Oh my God, this is not going well, is it...." He grins helplessly and rubs his hands together.

 _And indoors, you.  For.  Uhm, probably him, too.  Holy._ "Look.  Do what you need to do.  Uh.  What's actually going on?"

"I need to have a word.  It's rather urgent.  Could you call Sherlock?"

"He left his phone, so.  Does _Mycroft_ know?"

"Know what?" Alex asks, blanking his face. 

John sighs.  "Guess not?  No, he does.  Has to."

"I don't have my phone either, I didn't want to ping straight away, but."

 _Ping?_   "Who drove you?  That wasn't --"

"Roman Wilk, a Polish engineer, I suppose you've met."

"What?  Yeah, I know him.  Tea?" John asks, rubbing his hands on his thighs.  "Uhm.  Was he on his way to Eastbourne, or?"

"Yeah, he was.  I'll just take --"

"Uhm.  Need some soap?  I guess there's a bar -- in there.  Those are bloody high.  In back," John offers in the way of neutral observations, gesturing at Alex's feet.

"In fact, the worst is walking lightly on them," Alex says, and bites at his lips.

"Ha," John snorts.  He tries to glance away toward the kitchen counter top and does not quite manage, dragging an eye over that little garter ribbon, instead.  _Blue or black._ "Kettle...?" 

"Black," Alex says, and glances in the direction of the toilet.  "Pardon me, I."

"Go ahead, yeah."

"May I just borrow something of Sherlock's?  Whatever, a t-shirt, trousers."

"Sure, yeah."  John pads into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together.  He gauges the kettle in his hand before plunking it back on the counter top and flicking it on.  The roar of the water almost obscures the buzz of a text, over on the cluttered table that divides the living room from the cooking-and-concocting space.  _Yeah, love, could come home about now.  What._ John goes over and snatches up the phone.   

 

_In the mean, please assist Alexander should he require remedial attention.  MH_

 

 _In the mean?_   John does not intend to reply; instead, he listens to the kettle a bit and breathes through his nose.  _Stop.  Jeans, shirt, do it_.  _Alex doesn't have his phone, so how did he ping.  Here?_ He runs his hands through his hair, finds his forehead damp ( _stop it_ ), and goes round the corner to the bedroom to rifle through a drawer or two.  He drops a formless but washed t-shirt and black jeans on the floor outside the bath.  _Socks.  Because you don't have socks, you have those on.  Those.  Stop.  Stop this.  Not easy to pull down, nope.  Stop.  Am I a -- fucking telegram?_  

When Alex emerges, he is completely rinsed of what John now acknowledges with a cough of embarrassment as having been _damned_ good make-up _._   Sherlock's clothes, seemingly fitted to bursting on John's phoenix, hang slackly over Alex's thin shoulders and chest.  "Are you here?" John asks him, pointing at the phone.

"No sense in denying it, surely.  Did he ask me to contact him?"   _Kitty, please don't._

"Nope."  John shrugs and pours a mug of hot water, shakes his head at it, and takes to looking for tea bags, finally.  "Uh, how does he know you're here?"

"I suppose I did ping.  Or Roman pinged.  That's more likely, yes.  Just because I got past -- well.  One doesn't complain."

 _Until he does._ "Here," John says, because it is easier than posing more questions, and hands a steaming mug very carefully to Alex, who thanks him and retreats to Sherlock's armchair at the fireside. 


	18. Contributing conditions

Sherlock has been enjoying a 'tasting' of home made fruit vodkas with the Luttons, perhaps a bit too much.  He swans into the house at the same time Alex takes the last sip of his _second_ cup of tea.  Deductions and a sharp examination of the fit of his own clothing on Alex lead Sherlock to declare, saucily (as John, in his own armchair, puts a palm over his mouth and leans into it), " _High heels_?  Obvious."

"Not to the average person, dear," Alex grins, "although I'm sure the sound of Roman's custom exhaust pipe was audible to you, nearby, and the fact he didn't kill the engine suggested a quick drop-off.  A delivery from London, perhaps rye bread for John, or other shopping.  Which is why you didn't come much sooner."

"Precisely.  My bad."

John sighs.

"And," the artist adds, pulling his knees up to his chest in Sherlock's chair, "I'm in your clothes.  I must have come in something I didn't want to stay in long, and I didn't get soaked just from walking a few yards down my own street or through your garden."

"Nice," Sherlock remarks. "Though I'd also gone on the bit of wax in the arch of your right eyebrow.  You were heavily made-up.  What has he done?"

"I don't know what you mean, John has been fantastic," Alex says, to wind him up.

John's brows quiver as he tries not to laugh.  Sherlock's eyes suddenly clear. "Where was my brother when you left London?"

"At work."

"Really?"

"Yeah, at a long session."

"Interesting," Sherlock mutters, as a polite and distinct knock, made by the handle of an umbrella and not a knuckle, reaches their ears from the outer door.

Greetings are terse, at best, as the elder Holmes has little else at the centre of his concerns than the man who is curled in his brother's leather armchair, in socks plucked from Sherlock's Thursday section, for sure, and a t-shirt with its seams turned inward.  _Chosen by John in haste.  Embarrassed, certainly._

"I came to see you," Mycroft says, eyes fixed dangerously on Alex, who shows no contrition in response, John notes.  "At six twenty."

"And had he left an invitation from us?  Noooo," Sherlock remarks. 

Mycroft has just smelled the quince vodka on Sherlock's breath.  He frowns, and continues, "Anthony could not account for your absence.  You left your flat in disarray, took nothing with you, not even your pocketbook or your mobile.  When I located your exit on one of the cameras, it confirmed you'd not been physically coerced but you'd taken no bag which would indicate you'd planned to stay somewhere overnight, consistent with what I'd seen among your clothes."

John sucks in a breath.  _Yeah._  

"Moreover, there are 13 pills too many left in your anti-anxiety prescription.  A simple phone call to _any_ of us would have resolved -- plenty.  By compare, locating Mr. Wilk's car on the A23 came as a _relief_.  What is the matter?"

"Flush them next time," Sherlock whispers, and then turns to his brother with a toothy smile.  "And you, try a road block.  Oh, I understand, people would _see_."

"Shut.  Up."  John shakes his head.

Mycroft concludes icily, "You have a meeting in the morning at the Home Office, with me, at eleven, Alexander.  You will keep your appointment."

"Uhm, I can -- help you -- with...whatever," John mumbles.  "He can stay, we can get him to a train in the morning?"

"No, that would be unexciting.  He's here to carry him off like a disobedient spouse,"  Sherlock jibes, "except -- whoops, where do you get off.  He's my _guest_."

"You might want to shut up," John whispers.

"Were your stand on 'disobedience' ever as unswerving," Mycroft murmurs, and grimaces at Sherlock pointedly. 

Sherlock glances over at John, only to see his soldier's jaw flex; his eyes flick over to his brother once more.  "Say that again," he rumbles.

The elder Holmes raises his head; his brow flicks up before the corners of his lips follow suit. 

The moment is unbearably loaded. 

There seems to be an air of 'perfectly apparent' about Mycroft that breaks through other interpretations.  At least, that is what John thinks.  He repeats, "Might want to...shut up.  He was worried.  They're sort of -- love, they're -- you know."  John gestures back and forth at Mycroft and Alex, and shrugs.  He coughs away from Mycroft (who has shaken his head and shut his eyes, apparently to stop himself rolling them), and adds, "I thought I'd leave any announcements to you, Mycroft.  At whatever time you thought you'd -- uhm.  But.  Yeah.  Probably should get this out in the open."

Mycroft blinks at his brother-in-law.  "Announcement, of what?" he asks.

Alex gulps.  His eyes are going glassy and suddenly he is struggling to swallow.  John watches him push out a breath through his nose.  He knows that feeling. _The world, talking over your head about your place in things.  Sorry, mate_.   

"' _Sort of_.  Couldn't be otherwise.  _You_!" Sherlock snips at Alex.  "Bedroom!" 

"Sherlock, easy," John warns.  _Oh, fuck._

Alex stands, pointedly avoiding John's eyes, and follows his friend.  His shoulder is in the path of the bedroom door as Sherlock goes to slam it behind them, and to John's amazement, Mycroft is halfway across the room in time to bark, " _Mind_ _that door_!" at which all four men freeze momentarily.

"Go on, go," Sherlock hisses, and shuts himself and the wet-eyed artist in.  "So.  This is where I ought to offer my congratulations.  Were you _conscious_ at the time?  As plain as being right is _dull_ , you weren't.  I can see it now." Sherlock crosses his arms and nods facetiously.  "No, now I can't.  Show it to me.  Nothing like the burden of inventing lies for your loved ones, though!  Oh!  The burden of proof, now _that's_ a pain.  I'd be willing to bet you've never seen your own marriage certificate.  If you had, you'd have said something by now.  'On faith'.  Suits you!"

"Sherlock, for the love of God.  I knew you'd react this way!  Let me out."

"Show it to me, man!  Show me a paper, a public record!"

"I can't, now.  But.  Your brother was asked to supply information on -- you know, 'contributing conditions'.  Of death.  Because they anticipated needing to fill in a death certificate for me in the coming hours and there were numerous questions as to my identity, and there was no record of next of kin, I'd none, you know."

"That _peculiarity_ of yours."

"Not something I purposely cultivated, is it.  I -- please, let me speak!"

"Make a point, will you!" 

"He decided on a certain course of treatment, I can't say much about it but since I had no one else to speak for me, and there were legal barriers, of my own making, which stood in the way, of what he needed to do, and I have forgiven him for what he did to bypass  that."  (Alex is hardly able to breathe as he continues.)  "I mean, he changed your marriage record, by switching our names, so that we were -- the married party -- that day, April twelfth, and you two, our witnesses.  John actually figured it out -- well.  I found it very troubling." 

 _John!_   "Like hell my brother changed it."

"Sherlock, it's the truth."

"It's still there, though your name has been intentionally changed!"

"Not everywhere, and not always.  It allowed certain decisions to be taken.  And I'm glad."

"'Glad'.  What else can you be!" Sherlock sneers.

"Going stale in Hanwell, with the rest of my lot!" Alex snaps, tears glittering in his eyes.  "Should I have?  Answer for me, go on!"

"Shut up, that wasn't the point."

"So, here we are.  Here and now," Alex says through his teeth, turning his face away, too late to stop himself.  He wipes at his dripping nose and chokes out, "Remember what he's done?  Actually, I came here because of that.  I really, really need to talk to you.  Please.  Not about this." 

Sherlock huffs hard enough that he seems to smile.  "I do.  His decision style _stays with_ you.  He always wanted absolute control.  I told you.  Love is control as long as he's the one who has it.  This is too much."

"No.  No, dear, it's not about that, controlling or being controlled, it's all part of his position and you know it.  I should have no profile.  Believe me, I should not.  Listen to me.  I have to ask you something, please tell me --" 

"Pathetic, even for him, to make you go along with this 'bargain'."

Alex raises his chin.  "Sherlock, there is nothing pathetic, whatsoever, in your brother's character.  But I have to --"

"For instance, that he hasn't had any more decency than _you_ , to tell me.  Your tender 'secret'."

"You should not place these things in a category of 'decency', there are imperatives.  Could you --" 

"He didn't have the spine to sweep up.  'Notionally wedded'.  He's not even able to break it off."

"What a night, I've ruined everything possible," Alex remarks, blowing his nose into a randomly proffered pochette with a groan.  "Sorry, oh Lord. Is it bleeding?" he asks.  "My nose?"

"No." 

"The intention has always been the most important.  That's what I take from it, and we love you -- "

"And," Sherlock replies, waving his fingertips to and fro, "if it floats your boat, seems that it does, close enough, you act the part you _want_ to act.  He lets you.  Usually.  As long as you stay within his enclosures.  Oh, he's waiting to drag you back to London."  Sherlock grasps at his hair and fluffs it in annoyance.  "Enough of this _Scheiss_."  He seems ready to turn toward the door. 

"One interpretation," Alex sniffs, "of your literal _years_ of resistance, which are really hard for us to explain away by now, is that you simply cannot accept that he wanted _me_ , and not someone better."

"Alex, that's about as far off the mark as it gets."

"Or.  Should he have stayed alone, to better serve you or the many others who count on his favour?  Answer that carefully!" Alex folds his arms and waits for a verdict, seemingly on his person, with tears in his eyes.

"Mm."  Sherlock breathes for a moment.  He drops his gaze.  He isn't able to fix it higher than Alex's heart, but says what he needs to:  "Missed again.  You see, I don't like to go halves."

"Halves?" 

"We never had _people_ , much less -- people.  Nngh.  I detest the idea, always have."

"Oh."  Alex nods.  _Oh my God, finally_.  There is a silence.  "It...well...could have been _far_ more awkward, couldn't it," he says.  "Ha.  There are some things that weren't meant to linger in the imagination."

Sherlock smiles.  "Such as?"

"Now, now.  There's something else...I want you to know.  About things."

"If you're certain of avoiding restatement."

"Funny you should say that...."

"Mm?" 

"Yes, naughty one.  Don't grind your teeth, I beg you.  You see," Alex says, "if we ever take vows, I mean formally, I'll want you there." 

Sherlock sighs dramatically and straightens his face.  "Hehhh.  He has no such plans, if you were listening, ever.  Two crows of the cock, all denial.  How does that story end."

"That's disrespectful.  It's about legal matters, actually.  Never mind, you will be there."

"Enough of this."  Sherlock cannot bring himself to admit he is glad to hear it.  _Idiotic._  He nods in the direction of the door.  "Shall we?"

They emerge, Alex on Sherlock's arm not unlike a bride clutching a father; John and Mycroft have been at the fire grate and both straighten at the sound of the door.

"As you see, he twisted my arm," Sherlock begins, taking in the confusion on their faces with a smirk.  "Should you ever work up the courage to go on public record --"

"Sherlock," John hisses.

"I _beg_ your pardon," Mycroft says to Sherlock, though to Alex he may as well be addressing the room, for having to house the collective lunacy of the moment. 

"See?" Sherlock remarks to Alex. 

John bites the inside of his cheek and widens his eyes at Sherlock.  _Love, shut up about now._

"Could I," Alex says to Mycroft gently, "see you?  Please?  Before we go?"

"John, a bag for his clothes," Mycroft states.  "Of course." He takes a much-needed, long breath and crosses over to his brother, cupping Alex's elbow for himself as he heads into the bedroom.  Alex closes the door, and notes how thick the air has become.  "I'm sorry, I can hardly think tonight," the artist whispers.  "He's just emotional, you know, let it go."

"Were it only otherwise, on any account!"   

"He needs reassurance.  Don't we all.  Pardon me, I -- I don't -- want to make a scene."  Alex seems to have had second thoughts and turns to reach for the door.  "They're waiting, actually, this is their --" 

Mycroft swallows.  _An indictment._   He would be wise to address it, explicitly.  Instead, he leans in, "You'll only go back to a scene, should you leave now.  What was that?"

"I told him that he will be my witness.  When we confirm our marriage."

"Everyone thus placated," Mycroft concludes.

"What do you mean, dear?"

"That some are satisfied by ideas."

Alex bites his tongue and allows himself nothing more than a small "I see."

"Good," Mycroft says.  "Now.  Why are we both here?"

"Here?"

The elder Holmes takes in another deep breath.  "Let me.  You needed a change of scene, and were unable to tell me in time?  Nonsense.  You chose that course of action over speaking on the secure N-line.  I would not be here if that did not strike me as atypical enough to indicate something is afoot, much less -- the form you -- and the matter of the pills."  Mycroft presses his lips together.  "What has led to this lack of trust?"

"Sorry?  Whose trust are you referring to?" Alex counters. 

"Alexander.  What would come of your _inaction_?  That is the question on your mind." Mycroft scrutinises Alex's face at length.  "Your trust was moved, first.  And you cannot bear it."

There is no safe answer, decides Alex.  Mycroft watches intently as the artist nibbles at his lips and casts a defeated look at the floor, venturing, "I'd hoped to speak to your brother about a _personal_ matter, and I thought I'd come back quickly the same way.  I didn't think you'd miss me, I didn't know you'd be coming by, darling, you were in a long meeting."

"It was unproductive, staying on had become insupportable, I wanted to see you.  Your absence came as a shock."

"I can imagine.  I'm so sorry, but I've nobody to talk to.  Should I talk to Carly?  To Anthony?  Never."

"Indeed.  Anthony One was relieved of his post, two and a half hours ago.  Should you see his face again, treat it as you would any threat.  He shall have nothing more to do with your protection."

"Kitty --"  Alex cuts himself short.   _Lexie Bertie, don't, this is your fault, a young father is out of work, you are hopeless, what have you done?_

Mycroft has cut in; Alex had missed the exact moment:  "-- the idea, _horrifying_ , you in that defenceless state, in the rain, those _shoes_.  Were you to _fall_.  Not to invoke other scenarios, though should someone have taken an interest, not unlikely --"  Mycroft swallows and glances at Alex's throat and collarbones.  "You will _not_ place yourself in a point of such vulnerability again.  Leave it to me, whatever it is, use the channels you've been given, and do not run off _in disguise_ , the better to confide in _Sherlock_ about -- trifles that wouldn't touch you if you were taking your meds as prescribed.  You'll rest in the car, we're going back to London.  Yes, now.  Say goodbye to my brother and John.  Quickly, I've a call to make."

"Ginger kitty, don't be cross, please."

"Go on, say your goodbyes."

For nearly a minute, the four men stand in a loose line at the door, John at the head of it.  Alex's eyes, he sees, are wider and more desperate than ever; he is clutching a Tesco carry bag with his silk clothes (the heels are in a second bag, having undergone a quick soil examination by Sherlock in the bathroom).

"I'll be in London soon," Sherlock tells Alex, holding up the artist's coat with a nod that he should slip into it.    "Anyhow.  Appointment time.  John?"

"Oncologist's," John fills in.  "Check up.  Annual.  Colonoscopy."

" _Oh_ ," Sherlock says suddenly.

Mycroft looks over at him with an involuntary wince.

"Keep your photographer friend at bay," Sherlock says to Alex.

"Will do," Alex says, blushing quietly, uncertain what he is playing along with anymore.  He yawns into his palm out of nerves.

"Meaning no cream tea at the V&A."  Sherlock holds up a cash receipt from said Victorian tiled cafe, apparently freshly plucked from the artist's coat pocket.

Alex nods.  "Now, dear, if you do manage to find it, bring my encyclopaedia?  The history of homoerotic arts."

Sherlock snorts.  _Which I returned to you more than two years ago not long after an argument over my brother and his associations with -- the dead ones and you -- when you forgave me.  Oh._  "If you're lucky."

"Love," John coughs.  "Let them go?"

Sherlock does.  His mind is whirring.  _My brother was mortified when he saw your flat.  Why._

John locks up, sniffing and fussing with them longer than need be.  "Love, he came here to talk to you, he tried to, and he knew what would go down, and he still came here, like that."  John shakes his head slowly.  "Hmm.  Did he tell you anything, finally?"

"I didn't let him.  I changed the subject.  Thanks for the 'big reveal', convenient timing."

"Uhm.  What?"  As far as John is concerned, it had been his finest _faux pas_ to date. 

"Nothing he'd want to consult could be explained or helped with a word of 'advice'.  Something in his encyclopaedia was worth a guard's job to him, and even the risk of exposure -- oh.  _Oh_.  Perhaps exposure would have cut short the problem....  No, we cannot surmise that much, yet.  And until I get there myself, I don't want to assume anything more.  Not that there isn't a wealth of data already."

"You mean that he quit taking his anxiety meds.  That says something right there.  You know, a drop-off could make him more erratic?"

"He wants to be sure he can trust his own judgment, is going about it the wrong way.  He is more durable than he looks, but he does have suicidal ideations, nightmares.  You saw my brother's face.  How long have you known?"

"About the dressing up?  A long time.  I've seen some of his stuff --"

"So have I."

"Excuse me, when?  That's -- for Mycroft."

"Nope.  I saw it when my brother was out of town.  He does it for himself, a sort of performance art.  Never mind.  How long?  _John_?"

"About their -- sort of -- wedding.  It's not -- it happened during the epidemic.  I asked him a couple of months ago.  Hey, it was just a shot in the dark, but his reaction, he's not happy.  Not okay."

"Not in the least, particularly now.  Why... _now_...."

"And you're going to stay out of it, and you know you'd better.  Love."

"I'm not."

"You are." 

"Nope.  In fact, we, soldier, are going to have a series of arguments!"

"You sense that, too, eh."

"Yup.  On again, off again, crashing in London to get some... _space_."

"Uhhh.  Sure.  With some making up in between, at least?"

" _Yes_."

John nods.  "All right.  Can do."  He coughs.  "You're staying with whom?"

"John, he could have invited me up.  Got to be very time sensitive -- but this has been going on for some time.  Has to have, or he'd not have been looking for a chance to slip out.  That took planning, after imagining a need, after something.  But why the photographer.  Something.  Why does he still talk to that idiot!"

"His ex?  That one?  It is -- hmm.  It is time sensitive, yeah, he said so.  He has a meeting, he wanted to talk to you first about something urgent," John says, shaking a finger. 

"If you were going to go after my brother...."

"Knowing what I do, I'd go after Alex, try to turn him?  Who would ever get a chance, though?"

"No one ordinary."  Sherlock smirks.  "This is getting interesting."

"Holy shhhhh.  Alex -- an agent," John harrumphs, shaking his head.  "I've always thought he could be."

"Mata Hari," Sherlock says.  "And you opened the door...."

"Yeah, I did.  Nice legs.  Really nice legs.  You missed seeing the garters."  John bites his cheek and chuckles to himself.

" _You_ didn't.  Interesting.  As I said, we might have a _series_ of arguments."

"That, and everything in between.  Love."

"That's my John." 


	19. Proper treatment

Alex is coaxed from his flat by a series of hilarious texts from Sherlock; he has been reluctant -- without knowing why -- to test out errand-running in the company of the new guard. 

The slip of paper he feels pressed into his palm at _Liberty_ (by a sales assistant with a tag reading "Freddie"), at a rack of dressing gowns -- just as Alex has reached for his favourite, lined in an indigo Lodden -- is not what one would assume (then again, neither is Freddie, who bears no traces of having spent some months half-alive and without a roof over his head, in Camden).  It reads:  

 

_End nuptial farce in docs post-haste, best today. SH_

 

Alex plucks the gown in front of him from the rail, closes himself in the nearest dressing room, and reads those words again (and again, and again), breath tightening incrementally each time.  _I should, true, I should, it should change nothing at all, and yet._ He regrets having ever imagined he could function without meds _._

_Oh stop it.  You're very right, dear, this should have been 'righted' long ago, it was an emergency, my kitty acted nobly and I 'never agreed to' it, very true.  'Some people are satisfied by ideas.'  Also true.  You are always so right, my dearest kitty._

He tucks the little note in his jacket pocket, elects to burn it at home, and settles further into agreement with his unseen best friend; a headache hits his temples; he rubs at one and looks at himself in the triple mirrors, once more. _Everyone placated.  They should be as happy as I can make them, with or without me.  That is the best we can hope to do._

He does not recall the exact moment he leaves the gown, and the dressing area, with the general idea of seeing Mycroft, but he is interrupted once:  "Sir, may I ask you to stand away, there we are, thank you.  Could I interest you in viewing the newest catalogue...?"

"No, thank you.  Though your carpets are delightful," Alex replies (to another employee who has approached him from behind) while uncurling his fingers from the carved wooden figure of a pelican, and petting an exquisite blood-red and ochre rug, one of many thrown over the wooden walls overlooking the ground floor, below.  "Sorry."  He calls for Rodney next, and the route to the _Diogenes_ has rarely seemed shorter nor the arrival at its doorstep less sudden.  He is shown in promptly, as well.  He finds Mycroft standing at one end of his desk, where dozens of papers and photographs are arranged in stacks, some fan-shaped, indicating markers over a range of months, or years.  There is an empty tumbler at one corner.  Alex joins his man without a word and glances down at the array of photographs in front of them, before sliding an arm around the silky back of Mycroft's ink-blue waistcoat.  "Good afternoon, Alexander," Mycroft finally responds.

"Hello, dear.  Airstrikes, are they?"

"Yes, another violation of the latest cease-fire, there is an important pattern that corresponds to several mysterious shipments," he gestures loosely at pile near the tumbler.  "Nobody seems interested in where the 'motor' lies.  What is it?" 

"I -- don't know, I suppose you'll work it out, though?"

Mycroft arches a brow.  "How are _you_ , I meant."

"Oh.  I.  Well, I'm not here for long, Rodney is outside, just a hello."

"Ah."

"But I have a request."

"Yes, I see."

"It's perhaps too long in coming and that's why I want to say it right now, before we've said anything else.  You don't have to answer straight away."

(This prologue is becoming odd enough, and the artist's fingers unsteady enough as they course over Mycroft's spine, that the elder Holmes turns away from the papers.) 

"Yes, go on."

Alex fixes his eyes on Mycroft's, in part because he has no choice.  He opens his mouth and says, with the bearing of a journalist, "I must ask that you remove your name as my next of kin, and as my husband, in all the relevant registers, of yours, and mine.  Please."

"Ah."

"If it still figures in any, that is?"

Mycroft pauses before replying, minimally (as he is deducing), "It does." 

"Nikita might start on it today."

"Yes, he might." 

"It's a matter that's been needing --"

"-- Resolution."

"-- Proper treatment."

"So it is," Mycroft answers, biting away the dozens of questions on his tongue, any of which would imply incredulity or even resistance on his part.  _Why today?_   "I'll call."

"Thank you, Mycroft."  

"Hand me the mobile, to your right, if you would." 

Alex manages to do as he has been asked, even if the sight of his right hand (a substantial band glinting on one finger) lifting the thing is film-like to him.  Mycroft is examining that, too.

"...Indeed, for the best," he hears Mycroft saying. 

"It seemed an apt time," Alex remarks, hollowly.

"Pardon me.  Yes.  Yes, four twenty, K four twenty," Mycroft states in response to a loud, double-clicking sound in his phone.  The rest is carried out in Russian, and is remarkably brief.

 _Terminate the nuptial farce, Nikolai,_ Alex thinks along.  _Kitty, my dearest kitty.  Oh, mother, help me, I have to know what to do, what is right.  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Help me.  Help me, I am going mad, dearest, and I cannot stop.  Have I ever been better?_

"That is that," Mycroft says, setting his mobile aside again. 

"Okay, darling.  Fine," says Alex.

"No.  I apologize for not having initiated this conversation myself."  Mycroft drops his eyes to Alex's chest and seems to study the line of his jacket pocket.

"I won't have you say that," Alex replies.

"You wouldn't, no," Mycroft volleys back.  "I find I cannot explain myself acceptably." 

That looks to be the most unsettling point of the exchange, for them both.  Alex is keen to end their talk before the tears start:  "Do you need me here?" he asks.

"This is ultra," Mycroft mutters, and waves at his desk, "So I would not talk to you long, I'll be going out in forty minutes or so.  No, thirty-five."

"Then I'll leave you to it.  Thank you for having me, for a bit of a break -- I mean, a little -- a -- a --" 

"Of course," Mycroft answers.  "Shall I come see you tonight?"

"Well, I have the last little drawing for _Spectator_ , and then...some papers to get through?  I don't know.  Or.  No."

Mycroft nods.  "Understood." 

"And I've got some tidying up.  Your brother is coming, in two days, did he tell you?  He did, didn't he?  He'll also be here for your birthday," Alex ventures.  "He'll be staying with me, we've agreed.  He said that he and John have been quarrelling.  Anyhow.  He's -- outside.  Rodney, I mean.  Little Priscilla is ill so I want him to get back home."

"Alexander, before you go...just...one." Mycroft steps so close that he blurs and doubles in Alex's vision, an ironical pairing with the now-distinguishable scent of Armagnac on his breath.

"Oh -- I'm sorry, you've been forced to ask," Alex murmurs, leaning in to rub his cheek against Mycroft's, a gesture that somehow speaks more of a bothered head than anything else.  He kisses Mycroft gently on the mouth, once, and wraps his arms around him.  "Mmm, ginger kitty, dear man."

"And your exasperating diffidence lets you overlook what _you were just forced to ask_ ," Mycroft remarks, close to Alex's ear.  "You have a crashing headache, your eyes show everything, go on home, little one, we'll carry on, by and by."

Alex nods to himself and after another restrained kiss (which he might have joked "was suspiciously like an old marriage", on any other day), he takes leave of the _Diogenes_ and wonders what on earth he will do with himself in the upcoming hours. 

The little ink drawing, until now a minor deadline, takes on the character of _godsend_.

***

 

                                _How are things?  Alex_

_Exactly my question. SH_

_Not terribly well atm.  Alex_

                _Nothing has changed.  One less crutch.  Good riddance to it.  SH_

_I'm not able to agree with any of that.  Alex_

_Call when you're on your way.  Godspeed ;-)  Alex_

                _Stay well.  SH_

_You, too.  Alex_

_But did you work things out w/ yr officer this morning?_

_In a sense.  SH_

_OK Alex_

 

***

"He's done it, by the way."

John's eyebrows shift upward.  "Well, shit."

"No.  Further from it," Sherlock says, pacing slowly away, where he spins on his heel and toes back to John's side.  He is waiting for a lift to the City and listing off mentally how much he hates scheduled obligations, even those meant to provide comfort or safety.  _Especially those.  Tedious_.  

"What?  I don't know, I think I had a bit part in it.  Hope it was the right thing to do.  Can't even say, at this point."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"Love you.  God.  You."  John exhales.  "When you're there, you know.  Watch your back."

"And you wash yours."

John snickers and shakes his head.  "Heh.  Sure."

Sherlock stretches his neck from side to side and grunts, "Annoying, I might have taken a train.  But noooo."

"He's not even late, yet.  Hmm, I hear something --"

"On the road, not him."

"'Kay."

"Yup."

John holds Sherlock's eyes for a moment.  He huffs, "Jesus.  One more time, come on, come here."

"Uff --"

The kiss is hard, and Sherlock is glad to have John's mouth on his (and not to make him stop talking).  "Mmmmmm, soldier, hell in London without you, too."

"God, you.  You felt so fucking good on me earlier on, this mouth.  How long have we got, love?"

"Seven minutes, I expect.  He said seven-thirty."

"Want them to feel good?"

"I do, well.  Yes?  Oh."  (John hasn't wasted any time, and is already tugging at Sherlock's zip and smiling with intent.)  "Oh.  J -- John, I --"

"You, yeah.  Hmmmm, shut your eyes."

"No."

"Shut.  Them."

"Nnnnnngh, good --"

Sherlock peeks.  And what he sees he will carry in his head, and heart, because in this short time, his greatest love in the world wants only to make him as calm as possible _and as breathing goes...oh, John --_

He comes hard in John's fist, laughs at them both, and just as that still-noisy breath evens out, a car horn is audible from the front drive.

"Better get out there," John says, in a voice that's half sex, half order.

(Sherlock nearly forgets his bags over it.)

***

Alex is in his bed, nursing a chamomile and doing a bit of writing when he picks up Sherlock's call, with a happy wiggle, and exclaims, "You're here!"

"Nope.  You're definitely alone.  Where's my brother?"

"Mycroft?  He's at an interior ministry.  You?" 

"Same.  At the proctologist's."

"Sherlock!" 

"Oops, _semantics_."

"Ah ahaaa ha!  Lord, I've lost my tea down my front...should I even receive you in clothes!"

"Your decision, seeing you'll have a second guest, later on."

"Mhmm, your brother, and we're going to listen to vinyls," Alex replies.

"Because streaming hasn't been invented.  And because nothing of interest happens in London in the evenings.  Ugh, and if I have to watch it I'll need an ice-pick for my skull."

"And I can't wait to _see you, too_.  I have groats, fish and rosehip jelly -- shall we mix it all?"

"Mm.  Have you changed your locks?"

"I haven't.  Disappointed?"  A smile is audible in Alex's voice.   

"Boring!  I'll be there in an hour and half, looking forward to the latest model of Anthony.  Oh, and I'll be the one with a limp on my way _in_."

"You're horrid.  Or, no.  You aren't, no!  Ha ha!"

Sherlock hums to stop himself laughing.  "No.  I was about to tell you, Dr. Lindberg will pop by, a bit of variety in the spice of whatever they say it is...."  He bites his lip and waits for the first epithets to drop.  _Mother?  Or maybe just the mercies of Paul?_

" _Gracious Peter!_   What for?  Jens!  I've not -- I -- _honestly_ , how could you, I haven't seen him in -- !"

"Yes, and he was pleased to be invited.  Honestly."

"He's coming for dinner?  Oh, mercy, do I even have three matching plates?"   

"For God's sake, he's coming _after_ his own lunch meeting, the latest in a series of failed dates going by the way he's taken to tying his linen trouser fronts."

"What, you've seen him?"

"Not for years, but will I be wrong?"

"So you have noticed his trouser fronts, it's not just me!" 

"It is just you.  And don't worry, your hair is _perfect_."

"Mycroft wanted to come by and when he sees all of --"

"He has the best face detection software known to man.  He'll find you."

_"Sherlock!"_

"Have an extra shirt ironed and ready.  My brother's sense of smell is unmatched.  Aw.  You'll be fine."

"No, I will certainly not be!"

"Tootles!  And get out of bed, for God's sake."

_"Oh my God!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coming events in this story will make more sense after reading "The Judas Diary" by Rector. This is one of my favorite authors and I am beyond excited to be allowed to include parts of this tale in "In Keeping": http://archiveofourown.org/works/8267693/chapters/18941339


	20. Not whomever

"Hhhhh.  Oh."

"Hello --"

"Shut up.  Give it to me."

Such are the first words uttered in Alex's bedroom. 

Sherlock has nearly leapt from the door to his friend's bookcase, an act not without certain risks to propriety, given his earlier appointment ( _who cares_ ).  Now he stands, fingers waving a happy spell as he scans the shelves where a favourite encyclopaedia can be found -- at eye-level ( _of course_ ).  "What have you been keeping in here," he mumbles.  

"I hope you can tell me," Alex says.  "Shall I put on some potatoes, or -- what would you like?  Soup?"

"I don't care...for...."  The various papers Sherlock has dumped out of it onto Alex's duvet prove exciting enough to suspend speech production for a number of seconds.  Finally, he takes to reordering the documents.  He tosses aside a pencil study of a fourth-century marble arse.  "Mmm!"

Alex watches Sherlock's eyes darting wildly over the fronts and backs of the papers.  "So?" he enquires, a bit breathless by proxy.  "What do you think?"

Sherlock gazes at the air in between them and grins, despite a long gurgle in his gut.  "Plenty."

"But are they important?"

Sherlock pivots and cups a hand over his friend's shoulder.  "If you _ever_ decide to listen to your intuition," he says, "you'll be a formidable party. For now, keep emulating a wounded lamb as you see fit."

Alex frowns and takes a long breath to stop himself dealing a clap-back.  "There are worse things to emulate," he says stiffly. "But are these old notes of any worth?"

"Depends who you ask. But to put it in perspective:  recall your Uni years.  Our Uni years, more or less."

"Okay...smashing...super...great." 

"On that thought," Sherlock says, and darts in the direction of Alex's toilet.

Alex wanders out toward his kitchen and puts four eggs on to boil, and elects to switch on a pot of blended carrot soup for them.  

Sherlock is back shortly, and continues, "Where are you.  Oh."

Alex pads into his bedroom again and remarks, "We'll have something, soon.  No groats, I understand you shouldn't have wheat?"

"No.  Early nineties!  At _that_ time, a single page like this," Sherlock says, grasping one by the corner and holding it out for effect, "would have cost a certain intelligence chief -- someone's revered mentor -- forty thousand?"

"Gracious Mother." Alex leans over the remaining papers on his bed, eyes like milky saucers.

"A bargain."

"Seriously?"

"Spittle, Alex.  These are precious.  Probably.  Shouldn't we be wearing gloves?"

"They can't possibly be worth much now if they're -- well, handing them out like sweets, to whomever?  What, Sherlock?"

"You are not 'whomever'.  Somebody's noticed, even if you haven't."

"That could be, but I don't know what or who _they_ think I am.  If they think I'm Mycroft's lover, so what.  They might think I'm someone I'm _not_.  What do you reckon, dear?  Are you all right?"

"Will be.  Good you've got that much.  In spite of all the blurring of your identity, and he's done a fair job if it's just starting now, mmmm," Sherlock says, voice dropping to a reflective, rumbling purr. "What would have tipped things...."

"I wonder sometimes if the security committee who oversees you, and other --"

"They overlook you, if you're lucky."

"No, I know them, a little bit."

"Do they know you're 'with' him?  I doubt it.  He has limited trust in them. Compartmentalised."

"We've always behaved indifferently toward each other, at most a colleague and consultant sort of relationship.  Some know my art...."

"Does Smallwood know about my brother's feelings for you?"

"Lady Smallwood?  I don't know.  Could they be in each other's confidence?"

"Perhaps.  I wouldn't rule it out.  There's a story there, he won't say it but there is one."

Alex knits his brows.  "Why do you think that?" 

"I know her.  Not important.  I'll just say he needs her where she is."

"Close?"

"Better.  Lonely and just open enough."

"Can you _not_."

"Oh, it has nothing to do with _you_.  Just like stringing Carly along at the V &A has nothing to do with Mycroft.  So you'd say."

"Sherlock.  Please."

Sherlock sets his hands together at his lips.  "So you have them.  Now.  Why the photographer?  What do you _need_ from him."

"You are deep enough in this, so I'll tell you why.  I don't want anything from him, let it be clear.  But I am aware that he has a part in getting these to me.  I don't know what it is, yet."

"Is that the lamb talking?" 

"Listen!  Mycroft has pointed out to me, and you know it too, that Carly is the only person aside from you and John and one or two staff, like Nikita or Rodney, because even Anthony is not allowed to know much --"

"Carly knows my brother is in a relationship, with you.  True."

"He does not know or _like_ Mycroft, nor does he know where to find him.  I -- like to give a certain impression, I act it for whomever it is watching, because there has to be someone watching it.  You see, some time ago a strange thing happened, involving his assistant.  A young Chechen man who later disappeared, leaving some photos, public snapshots, of me.  As someone for hire, I suppose he'd taken them.  There's nothing exceptional about them, I'm alone in all of them except two with Carly, in public.  Then he left them behind for me.  Like a signal.  Mycroft got involved a bit because that guy flashed my eyes at Carly's photo-shoot -- it's a long story, but that person was working, _for Carly_ , under a false identity.  Later, Carly gave the pictures to me, and, well, I was supposed to give them to Mycroft.  He never asked for them, which I thought was a relief."

"Why?  Oh...you thought he'd set it up.  Mmm." 

"The same day I got them, from Carly, I mean, I was at a small, closed wedding ceremony."

"How many people."

"A dozen or so in the entire cathedral.  I was singing, a last-minute thing.  It's -- complicated.  A marriage of a very ill woman, I don't suppose she was long for the world."

"Who."

"A Serbian lady marrying someone in the diplomatic service."

"Serbian."

"Yeah.  But older."

"What else." 

"I was there to help, actually, Mycroft sent me to help Carly --"

"Help."

"Because Carly was supposed to give me photos.  Mycroft knew about them from Carly himself, because he had come and tried to make an appointment with your brother through Anthony.  And it happened that I wanted to take communion -- never mind!  Oh my God, I can't even think.  Just a moment, it's hard to remember everything."

"And you received _these_ pages, too.  That day, at the church."

"Yeah, but not from Carly."

"From _whom_."

"An organist.  They were in the choir loft -- waiting for me."

"Waiting."

"The papers.  I was asked to sing. By the bride's brother. The soloist hadn't arrived. An organist gave them to me with sheet music.  That day was bizarre."

"Separate deliveries.  What did you say to her.  Before she gave them to you." 

"I told her she was brave, I meant because of the height, you know.  She said it was just a job.  They were in a folder along with the notes for 'Ave Maria'.  I pretended I was expecting the papers.  That's what I've been doing -- three times, now, acting like they're being late about it, that I'm waiting for them.  It's just a bluff, but."

"So what have we established.  Nothing.  He sent you to a wedding, to help a photographer, to retrieve photos of yourself, left by...that photographer's missing helper.  You co-founded a gallery and foundation for street photographers.  This is annoying.  It can't be that obvious.  These papers were waiting for you, at a closed ceremony?  Which guard was with you that day?"

"The one who was just made redundant.  And no, he wasn't in Venice with us, and I got more papers in Venice."

" _Alex_."

"What.  I was on my own, a lot."

"Hell.  Why are you meeting Carly?  Remind me."

"We have plenty to talk about, they've been planning a new show at _F8 &C_ for Christmas.  I may need to ply him for information, later.  If I find out he's involved, I need him close, as I said."

"He's useless.  Don't waste your time."

"My intuition says I should.  So anyhow, I've had these pages in my flat, and I was even carrying them in the centre, and some in Venice, in my jacket, I really thought it was -- that Mycroft wanted to --"

"To what."  Sherlock folds his arms behind his back and raises his chin a bit.

"Please don't laugh. I thought perhaps he was vetting me with another intention.  I got it very wrong.  Okay?  And no, it's not fine."

Sherlock has learned Alex's limits over the years and decides that now is not the time to goad him over his romantic nature.  "He would not put you at risk, particularly abroad."

"That's what's started to worry me, that it doesn't feel right." 

"As well it shouldn't.  I am ninety-five percent certain you have parts of something called the Judas diary, volume two."

"Judas diary.  Mhm...." Alex nods and bites his lips.  "A traitor's diary?"

"Well.  An insurance contract of sorts.  And one of the most sought-after written documents in European intelligence for decades."

"Sherlock, how can you have deduced that already?"

"It happens that I've seen the first volume of it.  I was there when Mycroft bought it.  In ninety-one."

"Really!"

"Yup."

"I didn't know you worked together in those days?"

"We didn't.  It was -- never mind.  Chance.  But it was exactly the same size as _these_ pages.  Squarish, custom made.  Brown leather binding, tied shut to hold the bits of paper stuffed in it.  Look at the edges -- here."  Sherlock points a lovely finger at one of the sliced edges of a list marked up in red notes.  "Acid from a hand-tanned leather binding, leaching into the paper." 

"Brown leather?"

"Likely."

"Could it have been Italian leather?  Like, you know, from Venice, or Florence, or?"

Sherlock shrugs.  "Possibly.  That sort.  Who knows."

Alex touches his chest and shakes his head.  _From the same bindery I saw?  What if I'd admitted to owning a blue book from my kitty?_  "Yeah.  Well."

"Look, Alex.  My brother was clever enough to snag the first book for a mere 10 million from under noses on faces best left unremembered.  Shady characters from all over Europe lined up for a very special 'auction' that never took place.  Most of them have since 'passed on'.  Professional risk solutions.  Later, Mycroft admitted it had been only one of two such books.  The second was likely a work in progress, at that time, even more compromising -- lists, names, contacts between the who's-who of international intelligence.  He's been after it as a point of honour, perhaps in memory of his mentor.  Has he ever mentioned him?"

"Yes, in passing."

"So.  Looks like what you have here are lists about selected activities of my brother's, which persons unknown acquired, sliced up and sold off.  Sins collected in someone's interest."

"Who was the author? Or were there multiple authors?"

"One unusually prolific schemer. Judas Fisher.  Don't ask Mycroft about him."

"Okay.  But I can't keep hiding all this from him." 

"Hold off.  Now.  Who would want a register of his activities concerning the emigre population in London?" Sherlock points at one of the pages and shakes his fingers at it.  "The closed wedding.  Alex.  This.  Is.  Interesting."

"A lot of people would want it, dear.  Even I would.  So I could burn it all!  For England."

"You are _arguably_ closest to my brother, and you don't know what to do with it.  Fear not, very few people would have enough context to understand it once they'd managed to get it.  This would have passed through several hands, though, in the mean.  To find the right buyer." 

"Do you know what to do?  I don't.  I really don't."

"I'll need time."

"But one other thing, Sherlock:  why give these to _me_."

"You don't see why?"

"No.  Gracious Mother.  What do you suppose led to it being cut up in pieces?  Do you think it was stolen?  Or Judas -- Fisher has died?  Perhaps someone in his family needed money?"

"No way to know for certain in those circles.  But if you were looking for a birthday gift for my brother...."  Sherlock puffs out his cheeks.  "Go in for cuff links."

"You're all pink."

"You should see yourself."

"Yeah, so what."

"And now we dine and wait for Jens to come and give an opinion on the edges of these papers.  They're quite revealing in themselves."

"Oh, no, no.  Please, we can't show anyone!"

"Just parts.  To confirm the age of the inks, paper, and stains.  He won't have a clue what he's looking at.  Not in the least because he will be focussed on  _you_.  Unless you can overcome your arousal over the soup that is bubbling all over your cooker?"


	21. A word to the wise

_Because you have to -- talk._

"Oh, you're back," Alex notices, "or -- all right, never mind?"

Sherlock has paced in and out of every room in Alex's flat several times.  His arse aches, deeply enough to moan over by now, and exacerbated by the _insipid_ chatter over _one_ civil engineer's award for a new museum in Lichtenstein, or the technology in the _aluminium barring_ of a winter garden, added to a fine restaurant in Chelsea -- _the unendurable dryness of manners differs in no way from wind,_ he feels over-qualified to burst out with.  Alex is visibly concerned about his friend's odd hovering, worse after their light meal, as the painkillers have also worn off.  There is not much he can do; his offers of stomach rubs, warm bottles and enzyme pills have already been met with impishly vague refusals (some of which lie behind the artist's being able to answer the door to Dr. Jens Lindberg with colour in his face and his eyes literally shining from laughter). 

Pointedly avoiding any form of his usual sigh and free-fall onto Alex's firm sofa cushions, Sherlock has been peering over his friend's head when not ambling to and from the toilet.  When he's had enough of the Swede's visit he brings out the pages of the Judas diary and hands them to Alex over one of his narrow, cashmere-draped shoulders.

"Just _lie down_ , we'll manage," the artist tells Sherlock, leaning his neck back until it cracks a bit. "Really, dear, go on." 

"No," Sherlock mumbles.  "No need." 

"You had a rough morning.  He did, quite the welcome back to London," Alex explains to Jens, clasping his hands earnestly in his lap, which finally tips things in Sherlock's head.  _Ney._  

"Aha, _gå och lägg dig,_ " Jens adds politely.*

"Later."  Sherlock grins at Jens, right over Alex's head, until the irony is appropriate in thickness.  _Mösstock.  You had your chance.  Talent, half a brain, the other half left vacant for total adoration.  And?  Put back together again, by all the king's horses and Mycroft. Thank you very eternally, Jensers._   For good measure, Sherlock runs his fingers over the sofa back, just behind Alex.  The latest round of sinking, gurgling pressure is growing, however; he will leave the Swede to his basest assumption and (apparently) renewed regrets: he has just flicked a sly eye up Alex's slim legs, which are covered in close-fitting, woollen trousers -- with a row of dark metal buttons up the side of each calf. (Sherlock had chosen them after "dropping" tea on Alex's jeans, earlier on.)

Not quite soon enough, Jens' attentions are back on dating the inks, which he is examining under Sherlock's scratched, grey pop-out magnifier; he believes they are from the late 1990s, certainly not older -- "So, Alex, these pages were first untied from a binding, here, and sliced in half with a dull knife, like a letter opener, not with an x-acto blade or scissors, however, it was not, as a cut, very careful." He holds the edge of a list up to the strongest light in the flat -- "Folded and sliced as you open a glued closed top from a letter.  There are five pen types on this page," he explicates. "The list was written by one person but with many black pens, here, here, here, here, see, here.  It was made over an unknown period but not more than two or three years.  It was likely in one location.  The paper is very clean, not worn and the pens repeat.  One writer all the time." 

The architect glances up to meet Alex's stare; his former draughtsman's eyes are heavy -- fixed on the paper but defocused by his thoughts, which are definitely not of _him_.  "Do you have other questions?" he prompts. 

"Well. Shall I pour you another?" Alex asks, to fill a growing silence, as these examinations have been taking place in the presence of a pot of magnificent white tea -- selected and brewed for them by Sherlock in his kitchen-ward wanderings. His knack for finding one's most precious stuff in whichever cupboard he's rummaging through remains unsurpassed ( _may it always be so,_ thinks Alex).  Alex wishes someone could know how a colleague of Mycroft's, from a Chinese cultural institute in Geneva, had given the elder Holmes the tea "for his somebody" -- a turn of phrase that had amused Mycroft all the way home.  _'Moreover, 'somebody' is prettier than I'd remembered, come, little one....'  Mmmm, kitty._ "Hmmm, sorry," he sputters, realising he has yet to reach for the pot on the table.  "I just wonder if the book was bound in leather?"

"I believe so.  Thanks," Jens replies, waving gently over his half-filled cup, as he will not stay much longer.

"Well, that's helpful, I appreciate you taking the time to see us," Alex says.  "I'm sorry you can't really visit with Sherlock, more.  Perhaps another day.  How are things, with you?" he asks, convinced he is hopelessly boring, and nibbling his lips while trying recall the names of colleagues he'd once met, at Jens' firm -- turning up only _Horatio_ , the Barcelonian interior designer ( _had it off with him -- behind one of the etched-glass office walls, for modesty, it was Jens who wanted the modesty, stop your crying_ , in what words of Sherlock's he can still recall); Alex had been fairly certain of his place -- _in line for what, in fact?_

"I am on my own, now.  As before.  May I congratulate you?" Jens has just asked, cautiously.

"On...?" Alex pauses, as the worth of his (not-husband) and the insecurity he has felt over recent conversations both set in on him.  ( _"-- How to address the presence of blood in your clothes, in the wash, you will tell me right now --"_ )  He puts a hand out for his teacup.  _He means this ring_.  "Oh!  Yes, the Tate acquired one of the drawings, perhaps you've heard.  _'Gluttony'_.  You wrote a review, for _Reuters,_ once.  A very kind one, thank you, I've no doubt the interest others showed stemmed from that."

"You're only welcome.  May there be many in a successful career of yours.  Cheers."

"Cheers."  Alex meets Jens' steel eyes and smiles steadily, as he might for a group photograph -- not that he can recall having been in one since -- three quick shots at Sherlock's and John's wedding.  _You might stop it, Lexie, like, now._

"I was at the closing ceremony, for the exhibition, last month.  You were not there," Jens finally mentions.

Alex shakes his head, attempting to agree.  Mycroft had asked him, rather abruptly, not to attend, without explanation.  "No, I had another event," he replies, unable to remember whether or not it had included a warm bath. 

Here the stoical Jens betrays surprise, that one of two living English artists, included in a retrospective shown in galleries in six capitals, had found himself too busy to celebrate the return of his work (one of which was to be _purchased_ , no less, by the Tate Modern).  While Alex seems unassuming, his stance toward the art establishment remains enigmatic to Lindberg. "Aha.  I'd meant, earlier, may I congratulate you on your engagement?" the architect asks.

The artist sits back, crosses his legs at the knee and tries to sip liquid like a human.  "Oh, this is -- no.  It's an heirloom," he gets out. 

The two men seem able to share little else, aside from another silence.  Sherlock must have heard it, because he materialises just after that and asks Alex to hand him the pages from the tabletop.  He then asks Jens a series of technical questions while Alex makes a polite escape to his bedroom, where he pretends to look for a non-existent folder until Sherlock finally pokes his head through the door.  "Come say goodbye.  Or whatever they do nowadays."  

"That's what we shall do, whatever they do," Alex whispers, and performs a rite of deference and goodness at his threshold, closes the door behind the architect, turns the peculiar old lock, and drops his head very unceremoniously against the wooden frame in front of him.  "Sherlock, dear," he sighs, "you should have a warm bath."

"Nnngh, not now."

"Mercy.  I am so gone.  I can't even talk."

"Mmm.  To whomever isn't my brother.  It's a contagion _never_ before observed," Sherlock replies.

"I do listen to you, I do, I do."

That earns a pretty eye roll.  "You'd be wise not to listen closely."

Alex rubs his mouth distractedly and hums to himself.  "Have you called your husband and told him you're all right?  He's probably waiting to hear a word.  Does he know you've had a biopsy?"

"Pen-tip sized, hardly counts.  Send him a text if you want," Sherlock shrugs.  _Fighting with my John, accordingly ridiculous.  Ah, well._

***

The lift to Alex's floor closes with a metallic shush just behind Mycroft's right shoulder.  "I can smell you," he says, nipping at his tongue to avoid smiling to himself. 

"Over your own special aura.  Remarkable, though given the amount of epithelial tissue in play, fair enough," Sherlock's voice curls up the stairway two yards or so away.

"Add to that how your timing is off to where it's...calculable."  The elder Holmes taps his umbrella several times rhythmically.

"So what." 

"Better?"

"Ech.  No."

"Have a walk.  There are several matters we should clarify, the sooner the better.  See me."

"I see you."

"No."  Mycroft takes a step toward Alex's door.

Sherlock drops his voice, "You'd be wise to pay him more mind.  Not your strong suit, but for England?"  He licks the inside of his cheek.

Mycroft turns at the waist and looks his brother up and down.  "Sherlock, specifics or a change of wheel gauge."

"Are we hanging mid-air?"

"No need to remind me of your antics in Grodno.  Timing."

"Perhaps because I was right, then?" 

Mycroft shakes his head.  "Chance.  A gamble."

"No.  You told me yourself:  to understand a man's heart, watch what he chooses to ignore.  Oh.  What?"

" _Nothing_ ," Mycroft replies, even as the assertion slides in his mind toward the territory of fictions.

"So.  Reasons to live, places to be, people to see."

"Precisely.  Good night."

"Have a care." 

"Are we finished?"

"'I'm no party to your affairs, brother mine'," Sherlock answers -- a near-verbatim riposte of Mycroft's own authorship; he sniffs inward, stridently, as if the air were suddenly far fresher.  "Oh.  _Pardon_.  My spouse," he adds, pulling a buzzing telephone from his jacket pocket.  "John.  Yes...mm...hm, yes...." he trots away and toes down the stairs, this time for real. 

Mycroft examines the doormat, infers the recent presence of a third man (with soft shoes), and gives himself another moment for composure's sake.  He does not regain as much as he would have liked.

____________________

* Swedish texts:

_\- Go on to bed. / - Idiot._


	22. Loose strings

There are eighteen men in the Stranger's Room and the other common room at once, implying a certain tip-over in social frustration.  _Or is that a projection, yes, brother, hilarious._ Alone in his office, the grey disk in the mid-morning sky giving far too little natural light for his tired eyes, Mycroft switches on a lamp before he checks (each of) his jacket pockets, for notes.  He has waited several hours for this moment, as he might have appeared flighty in public, looking for a missing thing he should _feel_ against his body.  It _had_ been a sorely missing thing, for long enough that any scrap or card he finds ( _wants_ to find) still brings a prickle of emotion to his tongue, or stomach.  Or between his legs.  This time, it seems to reach all of them. 

 _Pay him mind._   He cannot deny that Sherlock has a point:  he _is_ poor at giving his time to others, and always has been.  Executive decisions are not the most universally-recognised expression of adoration.  Pity -- because if they were, he would be the best lover in England, despite -- _enough, or it will come back with a vengeance_.  He has tried to set his dozens of daily priorities with an inclusive arc that will embrace his artist, too, only to slip back, steadily, into that world of strategies and alliances that make any sweetening of "now" very difficult to enjoy.  _Venice, a failure._     

 _Ah, the note._ It will refer, he expects, to the letters of Keats to Brawne, as on a lark he'd read some of them aloud before leaving his lover in a fresh change of pyjamas, dropping off to sleep (to be awakened by Sherlock slinking in from his self-appointed "rounds", two hours later, according to Anthony). 

Mycroft determines that Keats can be felt among the words in the first half of the second sentence:

 

_I loved what you read to me, last night, and will never forget hearing it in your voice.  Today I declare my faith to be love, and you, dearest, will be the clearest precept, and whenever you find this, it is certain I will be thinking of that and everything else you are to me.  Happy birthday, to a gift, to the gifted.  Until tonight & then until our stars burn away, Yours._

 

It is fortunate that nobody will call on him to speak in the upcoming 15 minutes, possibly longer, and he has a chance ( _again, a need arises_ ) to calm himself.  

 _May he remain willing.  A personal matter.  A rearrangement._ He has considered Alex's words regarding needing _reassurance_ , as declared in Eastbourne -- too many times to have arrived at so few resolutions.

He is about to start those thoughts all over, but cuts himself short where it seems to matter most:  the encyclopaedia of homoerotic arts _had_ been moved, possibly more than once.  That means far too much.  Must.  The urge to snatch the volume from the shelf (like Sherlock must have done) and have a look at its contents has not gone away.  Mycroft's reason (still) tells him to settle things through a long game of affected disinterest in whatever they are hatching together; he suspects that Carlton Parsons has a leading role in his lover's discomfort; he will keep his eyes open.  

Lindberg had spent some time across from Alexander, in the living room, fingers restless enough to have formed a tiny folded ring out of a scrap of notepaper; the limited repertoire of topics that the three could peaceably discuss means a consultation had taken place over papers (old, or damaged, perhaps) -- reason enough, in Sherlock's mind, for the inclusion of the architect-and-ink-expert in their afternoon plans.  No reason had been alluded to by Alexander, either, his few remarks between yawns mainly about Sherlock's colon or the tea mishap (transparently premeditated, but Mycroft had held his tongue) that had forced a complete change of clothes less than five minutes before Lindberg's arrival.  He'd then petted Mycroft's neck and shoulder, listening considerately to an inventory of ongoing attempts to block annexes to a trade agreement; once, there had been a disapproving micro-expression -- at the mention of Robert Culver, likely acknowledging the extra duties the man's continued inefficiency has placed on the rest of the committee for the better part of four months.  _"And particularly you, the others must see it...I reckon the Lady wouldn't miss it."_  

(Mycroft had agreed.)  

_A personal matter, of such delicacy you cannot confide it.  My brother is in collusion.  (Pay him mind?  Yes.)_

***

Sherlock has not plumbed the depth of his brother's insecurities over his relationship (a few well-chosen jabs excepted), and would be almost _pleased_ to note this is happening, so soon:  a smokescreen made of singed ginger pride should buy time, to better test _who is pulling at whose strings_.  The tensile strength of fibre has long been an area of interest to the retired detective.  Its metaphorical side, he finds, has more and more appeal, too.

He has spent a few hours with Nikita, who claims that he has heard _exactly less than zero_ from Mycroft about having to make any changes to "Olexy's" marriage record, or any other.  Sherlock is intrigued, moreover, that this Russian coding "lacemaker" had taken a call from the Elder Blood, in Russian, about securing "some fucker photographer's" recent emails with attachments (admittedly, Mycroft had used another term to describe Parsons).  Nikita is more than willing to join Sherlock in a bit of mischief, "for a good times' sake".  Sherlock doesn't bother to correct the bloke's idioms, any more.  There are more hopeless causes on the horizon, it seems.

***

John is near the door, about to catch a taxi to Eastbourne, when he hears them:  the clicking of high-heeled shoes up the stones, out front.   _Now what._  He checks his watch.  _Appointment?  Not with me._  The hairs on his neck are already standing -- from too much coffee in the morning, but also because it is light outside, and after Mycroft's recent "retrieval" of Alex, there is a snowball's chance in hell of seeing _that_ friend in heels, out front.  Not that it would be a bad thing, mind, instead of _whatever this is_.  He shakes his head.   _Not in the mood for bullshit, just saying._ He opens the door in the face of a lady in black, head to toe, and kitten heeled shoes with decorative metal toes.  "Can I help you?" he asks.  "I'm on my way out."

"Oh.  Well.  Good morning, John Watson?  Tamara Jopp.  I'm working on a story about the hammer murders and the purported non-involvement of England's best living detective?"

"Are you, then," John says, stepping to the side, though not to let the lady further in.  He reaches back for his coat.  "Can't help, there.  Nice meeting you."

"I need one statement, that's all."

"Yup, that's how it starts.  I've got a --"  

"Whether Sherlock Holmes is _not_ involved --"

"Hmm.  Sherlock Holmes is retired and some people haven't --"

"They say he's been pushed to retire by criminal organisations."

"Ohhh.  I see."

"Who've put a high price --"

"Well, might want to look into why people have to say --"

"Dr. Watson, I've got reliable sources there is a clear pattern nobody is talking about, the police are close to making an arrest --"

"Glad to hear it.  Excuse me, now."

The journalist narrows her eyes before casting a look away, at the house.  "All right.  Here's my card.  We _should_ talk.  If he can't."

"We really shouldn't.  That's my cab," John nods in the direction of the road.  "Got to work."

"He's in hiding?" Jopp asks, hands on her hips.  "This place isn't on any GPS, or online maps, either...."

"He's in London, not hiding a thing, just gets left out, actually," John replies, rage squeezing at his throat.  "Excuse _me_."  He pushes past on the stepping stones and makes his way to a grey car covered in stickers.  "Hm.  Need a lift back to Eastbourne?  Or, that's your Mini down the way, there?"

***

A particularly tedious spec-committee vote ends mercifully by three; Andrea slips a message into Mycroft's hand in a hallway, in the House of Lords.  "Happy birthday, sir," she whispers. 

"Thank you.  You needn't have.  Ah."  Mycroft has glanced into his palm at what may as well be a poisonous bite.   _Dr. J Lindberg, 13.11/10:00/19:30_  "Explain," he says, tersely.

"He wanted an appointment, at your convenience, I told him to choose between ten a.m. or seven-thirty p.m. tomorrow?  Waiting for his confirmation unless I should pre --"

"The morning will do."

"Sir?"  There is an imploring tone that scrapes the inside of Mycroft's reddening ears (when had they begun ringing?).  

"No."

"Good day."

"No."


	23. The brother or the lover

Jens arrives at the _Diogenes_ three minutes early but he may as well have been a half-hour overdue for what Mycroft has just smoothed over, holding out a hand to accompany the thinnest of smiles:  "Dr. Lindberg.  Always a pleasure." 

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes, and thank you for accepting a short notice.  We will not take much of your time."

"I have a window, as it happened." Mycroft gestures toward one of the armchairs closest to the long end of his desk, initial (most vital) deductions now complete.  "And how is the firm?" he asks his grey-clad guest, analysing the blend of a cowl shawl and its loose but not careless arrangement at Jens' neck, as he settles back into his own high-backed office chair.  Lindberg's hair has receded significantly, still like blanched strands of grass and swept aside toward his ears.  His eyes are not as cool as usual, split slightly behind his superbly-ground bifocal glasses, the arch of his brows echoed by a brushed titanium, pipe-like construction, made to spec; Mycroft suddenly thinks of his Alexander's older, mechanical drawings for the waterworks -- and sniffs as the tedious, endlessly jointed images drop away.  Must drop away.  "Plans for expansion, I expect, given the latest VAT revisions in the industry?  A juncture with potential for you."

"Yes, we lie in the front edge and we are growing.  We expand into Hungary soon with a new satellite office, in historic Pest."  Jens crosses his long legs at the knee.  "In need of good staff, as always."

"Fine.  And I trust the newest winter garden developments in Brixton have progressed despite the initial barriers."

"Yes, yes, we're very pleased."

"Ah.  There will be a tender, in Portugal, a large natural history museum complex on a cliff side, referencing the textures of the surrounds, of course, should the next budget hold in Brussels," Mycroft remarks lightly.  The blaze of interest in Jens' Atlantic-grey eyes is genuine.  "A topic for another day, doctor, I'm afraid I don't have more than a half-hour, and you've come on other business."

"Thank you again for your time, and a useful tip.  Indeed."

Mycroft nods; he is a multi-tool, if he wants to be, and indulges in a moment of satisfaction -- that the simplest test of this master architect's true interest in Alexander Nussbaum had brought such an unambiguous outcome.  It is rare, thinks he, that one's path is cleared in a single move:  Horatio, the Barcelonian club dancer and Jens' interior designer, had needed little encouragement (a boost for a certain pro-secessionist referendum of his sister's on Catalonian social media, offered and executed anonymously, then attributed to Jens, and whispered into "the Hor's" ear at just the right juncture, after a company party) in order to pull the Swede into a luckless entanglement.   _To the disappointment of the draughtsman.  The reddened corners of his eyes, bruised arms from disturbed sleep.  Tapered fingers, born for subtle movements, a light touch on paper, to the chin, arm, thigh.  Kisses to the eyelids, lashes._ A surge of adoration hits Mycroft's tells as an impatient, double blink.

Jens begins, "To the point, then...." 

"Yes, naturally.  What brings you."

"A curious forgery," the architect declares.

Mycroft tips his head.  "The _likelihood_ of a forgery?"

"Yes, as I only undertook rather cursory -- looking at it.  Not closely enough to my satisfaction, but I believe so, it was a forgery of pages in the type we have seen in _another_ project."  Jens pauses and studies Mycroft for cues to continue or explain.  "I was reminded by it, of the item from our archival work together, in the autumn of 2001."

"2001. Thirty-seven 'decade' projects that quarter, alone."  _Rubbish._   "The size?"

"Consistent --" Jens gestures with his hands, indicating a width and height that suggests A5.

"Perhaps," Mycroft states, stare deepening as his pulse thuds in his ears.  "I understand that the context in which you viewed it is primary, however.  As is generally the case with 'forgeries'."

"Very true, Mr. Holmes.  The origin interests one.  But I cannot determine much, there.  But I thought you should know about its existence."  Jens averts his gaze from Mycroft's, as he is beginning to regret his decision to voice his thoughts for the sake of a bit of personal information and professional gain.  He feels translucent. 

Mycroft has just noted that uncertainty.  "Fair of you," he remarks.

"I would need time and resources to know more." 

"It won't be necessary.  Ah, who showed it to you?"  _Handed it over?  The brother or the lover?_

"It is not easy to admit that the papers were in the possession of -- Sherlock.  They, pardon me.  Were...in Sherlock's possession," Jens answers. 

 _They.  There we are._   "Mhm?"

"The atmosphere there in the meeting was not serious."

Mycroft removes his watch from its tiny pocket and gives it an ostentatious peek (his mind flashes forward to a visit in exactly twenty-four hours' time, to the grave of a deceased neuropsychiatrist, on the occasion of his would-be birthday).  "Atmosphere?"

"Oh.  Sherlock had invited me to the home of Alex Nussbaum, his...partner?"

Mycroft's stomach twists.  "Inconsiderate of me not to have asked -- may I offer you a drink," he tells it. 

(Jens has nodded politely, and accepted, saving them all.)  "Mineral water."

 _As it is ten in the bloody morning._   "I wonder," Mycroft continues, standing up from his desk and stepping toward the cabinet against the nearest wall, "why they thought it was worth your time.  The matter of the paper aside."  He uncaps a blue glass bottle of water and pours an elegant tumbler full.

"Thank you.  To your health.  Papers, in fact.  Four sheets cut from one bound volume," Jens adds, and sips quietly.

"I see.  And what more had been done to give the impression of authenticity?" Mycroft asks, studying the surface of the water in the glass from where he now stands, ankles and arms crossed, thighs butted just in front of a stack of satellite photographs -- which in themselves may have prevented him from enjoying a certain slice of the evening, were this news not a further source of unease. 

***

When Alex has taken Mycroft's call and accepted his regrets, and hurried wishes until nine twenty a.m., when the driver should arrive in Great Peter Street for him, he returns to the kitchen with a hand over his stomach, which he strokes absently.  He and Sherlock had chatted an afternoon away and they are both famished.  "So.  Interesting, that.  Sherlock, you said Jens wouldn't know what he was looking at, but he visited your brother today, who knows what for, and sent his regards my way, again."

"Who cares."  _Hell._   Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs at the ceiling, annoyed that Jens had already _handled_ the first volume, and likely misunderstood all of what mattered in it.  "He has no idea you're with my brother, though, we're still ahead."

"He does know that we've been acquainted at some point, and he's the only person to have photographed us together, you know the one, at the Tate."

Sherlock shrugs; he has never cared much for that photograph, the gold ring at its centre, but has kept it stored on his drive, anyhow.  "There are foreign intelligence bureaus with fine double portraits, no doubt."  (Alex explodes with a painfully old-school " _Whhhat_!")  "Thermal camera images and films from hotels abroad, the like."

"Oh, Lord!" 

"Priggish?  It's rubbed off?"

Alex bats his eyelashes and remarks, "No.  Let them learn how rubbing off is done, I say, but." 

"That's -- an approach."  _Good one._

"Ha ha!  Well.  But you were joking, honestly?"

"Since it's so amusing.  But if the double portraits in hotels don't include you in the rub, Alex?"

"Sherlock."

"Think it through."

"I don't have to, he's not that sort and you know it.  I'm -- getting a headache imagining it.  No.  Anyhow, he's not coming by so I suppose I'll turn in a little earlier, tonight."

 _Good, good, he knows they're out there for the taking.  Or receiving._   "Manipulations will look every bit as real.  The less you care, the better, start now.  Do you know about the Estonian?" Sherlock pokes lightly, as his stomach gurgles.

Alex bites his lips and shakes his head.  "Estonian...?"

"Not on an empty stomach."

"But.  Who is this Estonian?" Alex asks. 

"Pasta."

"Fine, your rye macaroni is quick and there can be a steamed zucchini sauce with chicken."

"Or we order in a taco night."

"Tacos.  So you are quarrelling, then," Alex lilts to himself.  "Call your husband, will you, and see how he's feeling.  He's probably on his way home, missing you like mad."

"Nnngh."

"And you _know_ I can't order in, sorry, it's -- part of things.  Diet, security, etcetera." 

Sherlock raises a brow and shakes his head.  "Things.  So, a translator, United Nations.  Hasn't mentioned her?"

"Just as I do not mention my girls."

"Auntie Claudia and the Virgin Mary?  True, he might not bother to mention Anna Valk.  Ask him."

Alex licks a scandalised grimace from his lips.  "Not anytime soon.  Things are a bit -- to be honest, I don't know how to describe them."

"For whatever reason that would be."  Sherlock taps his fingers restlessly on Alex's table top, but they sound very much to Alex like a woman's stride, in high heeled shoes.

"Wait a minute.  Is this the one who...lost their reason, or?  You said so, once, that one lost their mind.  Not that I can imagine that."

"And not that you _listened_."

"I always listen, I promise." Alex has filled a hammered pot with water and plopped it onto his stovetop.

"There's listening and then there's your listening.  _Pfffttt_!"

Alex yawns and rubs the front of his neck.  "There's only one thing on my mind, though."

"We've noticed," Sherlock mutters.  He looks twice and shuts his mouth, though a smile hits the corners of it.

The artist yawns again as he reaches into the fridge for a handful of little zucchinis, which he drops into the sink before pulling a large boning knife from the collection that he keeps sheathed in a very old wooden block. 

"Give me," Sherlock says.

"No, I.  I."

"Give it.  I'm cutting."

"Let's -- you're right, we should eat and talk more when --"

"Say it.  You have to, sometime."

"I -- wonder if -- "

"If he hid her like he hides you," Sherlock finishes the exact thought behind the stammer and sudden lack of colour about his friend, and stands from the kitchen table with a grunt. 

"I only mean, did he keep their friendship secret," the artist says flatly.

"Not friendship.  Compartmentalisation, it's a thing.  I'm _cutting_ those.  Put that down.  Where are the onions."

"Fine.  Sherlock, you are going to answer --" Alex surrenders his plans and turns to digging in a soft, lidded basket on his counter, from which he produces a largish, violet onion.  "Had he ever had a proper affair with a man before me." 

"He's had a proper affair with you?" Sherlock retorts, carelessly. 

" _Brother, please_ ," Alex answers, so earnestly that Sherlock bites his own tongue.  "I'm trying to ask something I can't even believe I _have_ to.  It matters, okay?  Right now."

"Fine.  No."  Sherlock shrugs.  "He is never in two minds whoever or whatever is in play, that's the point."

Alex does not look entirely reasonable, now.  "The closet.  All the worse when I take that into account."

"Yup."  

"It is part of something larger -- but feels like a -- like a -- a -- a --"

Sherlock tips his chin up, very much like Mycroft might.  "A coffin," he has suddenly deduced. 

"Yeah."  Alex stares into Sherlock's eyes, and then seems to slip off.

"Why.  Blackmail from foreign intelligence services and colleagues in dark corners of the Services.  To keep you from the sort of people who pass on information anonymously, puzzle you, trouble you to pull him from his saddle, by all appearances.  Your health."  Sherlock has started chopping the vegetables into thin half-circles.  "Pan?  Olive oil.  Question."

"Yes, dear?"

"When is the last time you cried?  About something other than onions in the room."

"I don't know, Sherlock, but God, I'm so tired.  So.  Tired.  Sherlock."

"Calm yourself.  Now.  Call back and tell him I'm taking you to Hanwell."

"What?  No, he and I always go to Hanwell together, tomorrow is David's birthday and we were planning to have lunch, a late birthday for him, he --"

"He's _busy_.  Remind him of that out of consideration."

"What?"

Sherlock hums.  "The matter we have to sort out tomorrow:  what is really in your _heart_."

Alex shakes beads of moisture off an enormous zucchini and says, without a mote of irony, "That I will love him well beyond the grave."

Sherlock slaps the counter top.  "For God's _sake_.  In the nanotech!  That pacemaker!  It has a chip in it.  What does it say."

"I.  Don't.  Know things like that.  I don't know."

"Do you know _why_ it's there?"

"Yes, for identification purposes if there's an incident." 

"Several months before the bird flu epidemic, my brother supervised the proceedings when a field agent was burnt up in a gas explosion that, oh, also tore him to pieces.  I came in and helped sort the photographs."

"Oh.  Yes, I do remember something of the sort, at least anecdotally," Alex furrows his eyebrows and closes his eyes for a moment.  "Yes.  Now I remember it.  What about it?"

"He'd turned, and they needed him accounted for.  Ever noticed that my brother's made a career of sorting out who's turned, or who can and will be turned?  Short version:  he wants his closest person identifiable through fire, pestilence, flood --"

"Or war."

"War," Sherlock snorts. 

"Well, yes.  Quite so," Alex remarks, with the intonation of an elderly aunt creeping into his voice.  "You know what, we're living in times quite analogous to those before the Great War?  Numerous political moves that raise tensions over --"

"So you know how he thinks.  We want to know who he says you are, in the _system_.  Which is why..." Sherlock turns and waves the knife emphatically.

Alex sighs, "You'll want to cut my heart out.  Go on, you've wanted it for years."

"Won't rule _anything_ out before I have data."  Sherlock suddenly grins to himself.  "If it's ultra, like his, watch your back." 

"Well, you know me," Alex replies ambiguously, but he has not smiled.  "But about the parallels to 1910.  Honestly, it's quite disturbing.  I've been thinking about drawing some --" 

"In other news, we are going to meet a nice lady, tomorrow, in Hanwell Cemetery."

"Alive or dead.  Oh my God, the questions I have to ask these days."  

"Very much alive."

"Now I see where you're going.  We're meeting Lady Smallwood!"

"Nooooo."  _Interesting, though, keep that up._   "Mindy.  And then we decide what to do next about 'matters of the heart'.  Beep."

"Oh, no.  No, no, no.  'Mindy' will scan me?  She will?  Gracious Mother." 

"Don't worry.  She has permanent memory damage from a fall during an overdose and can't remember most names or faces."

"Though she remembers  _your_ mug, that's telling," Alex replies, glancing at Sherlock's lips.  "Probably your mouth."

"She knew me before.  How is your pal Parsons these days?  In need of cream tea.  Now call my brother." 


	24. Breathing

"I fixed the chaise.  That leg won't be coming off any time this century."

"While any of the other three might."

"Think so?"

"Yes, and soon."

John breathes in, hard.  He lets it hiss into the microphone and it sounds as though he may have switched hands and set the mobile against his shoulder.  "Heh.  Won't deny the possibility.  Uhm, so.  Bloody hate it, without you."

 _Hands free._  "John."

"Hmmm?"

"I feel the same."  Sherlock grips his phone all the harder as he hears John yawn, with a stretch that would certainly arch his back and hitch his shirt up from his trousers, exposing a little line of skin at the hip, a point of entry for a hand.  

"Yeah, I know.  Let's not draw this out more than another day or two, all right?  How are they?"

"Who?  Oh.  Nngh, dull.  Sleeping tonight?"

"Doubt it."

"I may want you to have a look at something, via Skype."

"Sure."

"Someone, in fact."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes.  I need you to watch Alex sleep."

"The fff -- MI5 can watch the guy sleep."  John coughs over obvious disappointment.  "How about I watch _you_ sleep.  Or something else.  And watch you sleep it off." 

Sherlock seems to have ignored that.  (He hasn't.)  He continues, lowering his voice, "One thing is for certain.  My brother does _not_ sleep with him."

John hisses, "You can't seem to stay out of this, wish I knew why."  John squeezes his teeth together.   _Wherever this is going, you're coming home_. 

"John, an opinion.  Please.  It's important."

"Hmm.  If I do it.  Fine.  What am I looking for."

"He stops breathing when he sleeps," Sherlock replies.

John pauses for a long intake through his nose.  "And? You know that _how_?"

"I _needed_ something from his bedside table -- never mind."

" _Sherlock_."

"Averaging once a minute to twice in three minutes, it's hard to miss if you're right there."

"Are you sure?  That's.  A lot.  Frequent."

"It means his pacemaker starts in, multiple times a night, or he'd go into arrhythmia."

"Hmm.  Yeah.  The anti-anxiety medication would make it worse.  Well, shit.  Could definitely be apnoea." 

"Dreams of falling, drowning, the dead mother, anxious sleep, snoring.  Struggling to wake up.  Slow starter in the morning."  Sherlock shrugs to himself.

"He was probably experiencing it more after the aviary flu, I mean he never has got back everything."

"What do you mean."

"You said yourself, he's not all there.  Mentally.  Just.  Emotional and tired."

"Warfarin, and prolonged exposure to Mycroft's numerous -- mind-numbing properties, might be factors.  John."

"Either way, if it's as often as you say, he's a candidate for a CPAP, it's a kind of ventilator.  He can get started on that, well, as soon as possible."

Sherlock hums.  "He'll kindly refuse.  He's claustrophobic, cannot bear anything resembling hospital equipment."  He may as well be referring to himself, but will not go into that part.

" _Not_ your battle.  Tell Mycroft to get him in for a polysomnography.  A pulse oximetry will help explain whether there are oxygen drops happening, pretty sure there are, and a lot of them.  I don't need to watch him, actually, the signs are all there, I guess I'd assumed Mycroft -- never mind.  Know what, I'll ring him."

"John."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Sure.  Good call, love.  Actually."

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

"Tomorrow."

"All right.  Can't come soon enough."

Sherlock snickers.  "We'll see."

"Heh.  Yup."

"It's dull.  Unbearably dull."

"I know.  Yeah.  Good to hear you."

"Okay."

"And.  Yeah, let's -- see each other really soon."

"Okay."

"I need you, here."

"I know, John."

"It would feel good about now."

Sherlock blinks.  "Mhm."

"Yeah.  Like to read me, I don't know, a page of the BT phone book?" John laughs a little.

"The only one on hand is from 1998."

"Right --" John snorts.  "It would do, though.  Hearing you is -- good."

"How.  Good."

John licks his lips and spreads his legs a bit.  "Uhmm.  Depends if you keep talking like -- yourself."

"I hear the fire.  Are your legs out, heels on my chair?"

John gives his feet a glance, flexing them a bit for good measure.  "Actually, yeah, they are.  Long day, just got home a bit ago.  Fire's going, lights are out."

"Mm." 

"Just me, a lot of shadows, there's one on the far wall you'd probably like."  John lets out a little sign of keenness that is half laugh, half pant.

Sherlock grins to himself.  "Wavering, darkening and fading again.  Your hand in your lap, a thumb in your flies."

"Well, it is, now," John says.

Sherlock would steal down to Eastbourne in a heartbeat, in better times.  He squirms.  "Only your thumb?"

"Not -- only my thumb, no, and about that BT book?"

"Any book you chose, but why waste a tongue on _words_."

"Don't have much else, right now.  Already ate.  Waiting for you to get back, that's all."

"I know." 

"By the way, I forgot, there was someone from the papers.  Jopp, or.  We didn't do much talking.  Might end up as a feature, going on what they've done before, eh?"

"Mm.  More to come, undoubtedly."  _Nnngh._  

"Well.  Uhm.  Miss you a lot.  Really a lot.  See you soon, right?  Call when you're on the way?"

"Will do, John.  Goodnight, soldier."

"Fff.  Missing that, too.  Goodnight.  My love."

John rings off.  Sherlock pulls his eyes open.  Alex's office room, a homey space where little work is completed anymore, comes back into focus. (Whenever his eyes had dropped closed, he'd not missed his present surroundings in the least.)  _My love._

He will pull John close at the first possible pause.  Better still, he might reject all attempts at chatting, greeting.  Put his face in John's strong neck, kiss the checked cotton even if it should interfere, take in each scent, one by one, and unwind his nerves around them, move, adjust, move more, hold him tightly, as much as John will want before they drop down somewhere close (such as a wooden floor).  He will kiss all the folds in John's skin with attentions for each unscripted but in careful accordance with John's breathing -- hurried, or drawn deeply, held, made rapid and explosive.  _Soon, soon is eternally too far away.  John, I love you._

***

" _My dearest kitty, your love is everything to me & is the sense in my life.  Right now, it is dark outdoors & you are not here & I would want little else than to kiss you, back, first in greeting and then in acknowledgement of missing your touch and your body, your voice; it's more pleasant to imagine this than merely breathe, particularly remembering what I had from you last time, when we were still downstairs."  _

(Sherlock breaks off his tapping on the screen of his phone for long enough to glower over at the artist, who is biting his lips and writing too-much-nothing on a card.)

_"Before I knew better, I thought your lips rather rigid & unforgiving in expression & I could not have imagined how they would feel on mine & how they would give the most perfect attentions to every place on my neck & elsewhere.  Your tongue, I meant to point out, can be soft or light though when it begins to feel like a finger, I am lost."_

"You aren't _listening_."

"Mmm?"

"You are breathing out loud."

Alex's right eyebrow quivers.  "Only a few years more, I promise." 

Sherlock's friend shifts on his sofa and pulls his legs to the side, in a bizarre configuration where his ankles are crossed; he is already blinking away whatever nastiness in the form of an undressed, ginger bureaucrat he'd called up before his mind's eye.  

"That is not a position conducive to circulation in your toes," Sherlock sniffs from his place in one of Alex's armchairs.  "More annoying, you _don't always_ breathe, hard to say what's worse," he adds, pleased that he has found a door into a chat about -- continuous positive airway pressure masks. 

Alex seems to have started connecting dots, even if it is at his excruciatingly slow pace.  He is already resisting the final picture, as well.  "Oh.  That someone is breathtaking in bed?"

There is a dab more colour on Sherlock's cheeks as he interjects, "Shut up.  You _stop_ breathing in your sleep." 

"And you know that by an algorithm concerning what?" Alex glances over at Sherlock and knits his brows. "Nose hair growth?"

 _Arbitrary?  Why nose hair._ Sherlock nostrils actually itch, now.  "Observation," he counters, "of details not easily seen on an everyday basis.  Apnoea, Alex, not a foreign concept to you, where heart disease and a sizeable nose are in play at once.  All the more interesting that my brother doesn't know." 

"Ahem."  Alex sets his pen aside.  "You truly cannot let _anything_ go un-discussed."

Sherlock steeples his fingers and looks hard at his friend.  "Because he does not know.  Obvious reasons." 

"As for why your Mum's room is done up in Morris, now, that was a gift, for me."

Sherlock swallows.  The sudden mention of the blue room pulls up a flurry of memories:  he'd leapt into that same metal bed, countless times.  (It is not large but that had been the point:  Mum would hold on to him tightly to be sure he'd not roll out or even fear rolling out.)  _Even such memories -- a trap, as they imply subsequent end points._

Alex continues, no longer seeming keen on the little card he'd been writing on.  "Neither Mycroft nor I can fall asleep with another person in the room.  Plus, you've kindly pointed out on other occasions, that I snore like a hippopotamus.  Part of a package of personal charms."

"John says you need a sleep test called a polysomnography."

"Lord, no, we're not starting up another new regimen, Sherlock.  I'll need a new annex in my head.  It's a bit too much trouble at some point." 

"Your serotonin strikes, again.  You'll see an improvement in your memory if you get more oxygen.  Lower anxiety, an added bonus.  You will need something -- like -- one of these."  Sherlock cues up an image search on the screen of his phone and holds it out. 

Alex leans forward and squints.  "A wife?  Look how all the middle-aged blokes in bed have beatifically contented ladies holding them from behind.  Do those hideous oxygen masks vibrate, I wonder?"

Sherlock chuckles.  "There's one man in bed _alone_ , as well.  Suspicious.  So.  There are three main types of mask.  Coverage is an issue, due to potential bruising around your nose and chin.  Your tendency to turn over frequently and the likelihood you will tear off the mask in your sleep means an alarm may be --"

"Never.  Look at it, a -- pipe, and a compressor.  That will _hiss_."  Alex grits his teeth.  "Like a.  Oh, have mercy, I will not have it, I cannot imagine it.  Never."

"You aren't going for one-night hook-ups, last I'd checked."

"I cannot imagine!  It!  Look!  No." 

"You won't imagine anything if your heart stops in your _sleep_."

"It would keep going, going.  _Going_."

The two look across at each other.  Alex sighs and shakes his head, first.

"You're still angry," Sherlock remarks. 

"Let a man."

"Funny.  Most people think they _want_ someone who needs them alive."  Sherlock makes a backhand gesture of dismissal.  "And.  There we are.  John's been on the phone...."

Alex's mobile has just lit up and buzzed against the sofa.  "Has he."  Alex answers, pauses.  "Thank you," he says to an unidentifiable intermediary as the line clicks over and he hears Mycroft take in a breath.

"Good evening, Alexander."

Alex's eyes skim Sherlock's face and rest at the level of his friend's pretty hands, and his thumbs, as they dance over the phone screen once more.  "Good evening, darling," he says gently.  "You've been on my mind so much, thank you for calling."  He cradles his other cheek in his hand and rocks slightly. 

"John Watson was in touch," Mycroft begins.

"Uncross your ankles," Sherlock mutters, just loudly enough to be heard over the line.

"Yes, Sherlock and I were just -- on the very subject of -- what John was probably telling you about."

"We should talk in the morning, without an audience," the elder Holmes says, each word careful and clipped, as if he were reading it; he seems to be walking, or pacing. 

"We should."  _Please, please, yes._

"You might come to the club."

"Okay, when?  When are -- when -- are both things?" Alex asks, and closes his eyes.

"An appointment, to be established.  Regarding our own, Rodney will come for you at nine-fifteen."

"We still have several occasions to celebrate," Alex mentions, realising as he says it that his reminder is poorly timed.  "Perhaps we can work in a lunch, as well."

Sherlock shakes his head and mouths " _Car-ly_ ".  

Mycroft, as though cognizant of that, remains silent for a solid five seconds.  "Perhaps.  Though it is not the best time," he finally answers, "to be seen."

"No?"  _We shall not argue._   "Nine-fifteen, then.  Until then," the artist concludes.  He receives no closure from Mycroft, who he suspects has been looking into a snifter.  Alex rings off and fixes now-troubled eyes on Sherlock.  "So, listen.  I will not lie to him, tomorrow, should he ask me what I have.  Or, had.  At some stage he will ask.  And if word reaches him that I have been scanned by a stranger, and now someone can know --"

"That scan was for us.  _Ultra_.  You.  Remarkable."

"Like I said, it has to be a mistake.  Ah, well, so it is.   Ultra.  Perhaps for expediency and minimal questions in an emergency, as you said.  I don't know, Lord knows I don't deserve it." 

That seems to have warranted an extra eye-roll, at the very least.  Sherlock taps a closed hand against his lips and remarks, in a change of tone, "The Chechen assistant did it first, to inform someone else of your legitimacy, as a contact.  I'd put my international reputation on it."

"Don't say such things."

"It was never just a 'flash'."  _Neither was the international reputation._   "Fine.  Don't lie," Sherlock gives a sudden toss of his hand, and shrugs.  "Mycroft has other problems, apparently.  Drinking, as well, I see."

Alex ignores that, too pointedly for either man's comfort.  A silence passes, marked by the clicking of Alex's valve.  "Where are the papers?" he asks, as soon as he's noticed it.  "The Judas diary pages and the censored ones."

"You don't know."

"No."

"Nooope."

"And I told you, I don't _want_ to meet Carly tomorrow, Sherlock.  The exhibit is carrying on without my input and he's going to be odd, we were together at this time of year and he -- do you understand."

"No.  Since it's about his loss.  Alex.  We've established that when you meet Parsons, things happen, and it's time to bring this to a rightful and just head.  Someone wants a way in.  Quit pretending my brother will swoop in to stop it for you."

"I don't like this.  I really don't."

Sherlock flashes a smile.  "Neither do I.  Go to bed.  I have crimes to solve."

"No, you shouldn't do that.  No, you need to go back to John, is what you need to do."

"Yup."  _With biopsy report in hand.  Hi, soldier.  Behold:  the state of my arse._ "Not your problem."

"It is, indirectly, very much so.  So, assuming something happens, who could it be?  Who would want to hurt Mycroft's reputation?  I mean, the most?  And why would they go about it by recruiting his lover."

Sherlock makes a quick calculation.  "Spouse," he says.  "He has not ordered the correction of John's and my marriage record.  And no, Nikita has zero interest in lying about it."

"Don't _you_ be lying, swear it.  Gracious Mother.  Oh.  Oh.  He.  Oh, my."

"Therefore? He expects danger and wants the same range of control.  Or, can't handle a change of status that hasn't come from his own orders."

"Oh my God.  No.  I won't let on that I know.  Look.  I.  I.  Oh.  I'm sorry.  Sorry, I."  Alex covers his face in his hands.  "Oh, kitty.  Oh, God," his voice cracks into a loud sob.  "Oh, kiiiiitty." 

"Cry.  You're better off.  Something will happen when you meet Parsons, it always does.  Intuition states you have a master-level bluff ahead.  Calmly.  Does it."


	25. Plenty to discuss

_Six minutes._

Mycroft is not accustomed, in the forms by which he organises his thoughts, cares and plans, to multiple revisions of said functions.  Self-doubt has crept in among other distasteful (read: wasteful) acts, among them woolgathering at his own desk.  The _lack of trust_ he had noted in Eastbourne, and the answer he'd got -- _whose trust are you referring to_ \-- re-emerge, now.  Worse, he had fully intended to fulfil the artist's request about the records without demur; he has rung up Nikita on other matters in the meantime, and the unfinished wording of _that_ outstanding order echoes like a stammer in his head.   _Replace it, with --_

The news about the breathing trouble has come as a shock.  John's advice has been accepted unquestioningly; they know that without Sherlock's incurable urge to pry, Alexander's condition would have gone unnoticed for much longer.  Nobody could be closer or dearer than his little dove, and yet another bit of evidence indicates to Mycroft that he _has not been present enough_.  Were it possible to avoid a slew of insinuations, Mycroft would share some of his concerns with Sherlock, particularly about the configurations of the air masks themselves, given a very restless sleeper as patient.    

The elder Holmes has seen far too little of his Alexander in recent days -- the least since a weeklong head cold, in fact.  His brother's spitefulness deflates his courage like little else (as hard as it is to admit), and waiting for him to clear out of London is preferable to pushing one's way into the chatting, sketching and cooking at Great Peter Street. 

He stops trailing the flight path of a dust mote with his lead grey eyes, and peevishly opens a file on Kosovo, flattening it, as _five full minutes_ of focus remain to be exploited.  

When the artist arrives, as on so many occasions at _this_ hour, Mycroft stands civilly, and moves out from behind his desk.  He is deducing like mad, Alex sees.  The shadows under Mycroft's eyes corroborate the account of the decanter in the room.  _Again, kitty?_  

Alex sighs.  "And here you are, all on your own, worrying," he says, dispensing with small talk.  He closes the distance, kisses Mycroft's right cheek lightly, and smiles against it sweetly.  "Good morning."

"Good morning.  Not rested, either?" 

"Not entirely.  Well, I wish I could disagree, but I think John and Sherlock are absolutely right about the apnoea," Alex says.

Mycroft nods a bit, relieved.  "Yes." 

"And no, I don't plan to fight over it, I've already come to blows with your brother this morning.  Twice!  And he's promised round three if I don't comply."

"Good for him."  Mycroft resumes breathing, notes the irony in that, and tries to smile.

"What shall we do about an appointment?" Alex asks.   

"I've arranged for a home test, to start.  Gladys will assist you."

"The masks, though.  Have you seen how they work?"

"Yes."  

"If I get one, you won't look in on me."

Mycroft sniffs.  "I will.  Had I done so, more, we'd be ahead."

Alex circles Mycroft's shoulder in one arm and leans in to nuzzle along the set jaw, where a bit of cedar and orange scent tickles the artist's nose.  "You blame yourself so easily, don't."

"There is clear cause."  (The warmth is affecting Mycroft, belly down.)

Alex kisses a throbbing place on Mycroft's neck, just above the collar.  "Be kinder to yourself," he says.  "Are you all right?"

Mycroft sets his nose against Alex's hair and sniffs at it a bit absently.  "My priority this morning," he explains, stepping back in order to issue a sharp look, "was ensuring you agree that arranging assistance with night breathing is non-negotiable."

"Okay, darling.  I understand."

Mycroft pauses.  "Is there anything else you wish to say." 

"I."  Alex blinks.  _Oh, dear._   "There's plenty to discuss, isn't there."

Mycroft drops his gaze pointedly.  "As you have been in possession of counter intelligence."

 _Gracious Peter, I am sorry._   "Quite right."  Alex, disarming as only he could be, folds his hands at his waist, as if waiting for a reprimand.  He continues, "I had some pages from a book that once belonged to Judas Fisher, and others which mention your name.  There were eleven pages all together, which I got from three different people."

Mycroft remarks, in as neutral a voice as he has ever used to declare such intent, "I could have retrieved them any time I wished.  However, I'd have preferred them from your hand, along with your version of events."

"But."

"What is it."

"I didn't take it very seriously."

"No."

Alex moves back to hold onto Mycroft, again.  "At first, I believed _you_ were handing papers over, to check my loyalties.  Don't be cross with me. Please.  I realised soon enough that it wasn't you, and then I started to wonder what the point was, because I still don't see it, really."

 _Not a far-fetched assumption, to be fair_ , thinks Mycroft, and it explains plenty about the artist's behaviour, in recent weeks.  "My motivation, in your eyes, being...?" the elder Holmes asks.

"To vet me before -- I know you'd not torment me.  For your own satisfaction.  Before.  That.  You know."

 _A proposal, for instance._ Mycroft stares across the room for an anchor point.  "Certainly not."

"They seem old, so.  More evidence that you are unfit for your job, perhaps," Alex replies.

" _Have_ you any?" Mycroft retorts.

"No, no, I didn't mean it that way."  Alex leans back and searches Mycroft's eyes, apologetically shaking his head and dropping it back to his man's shoulder.  "I have never thought you're unfit for any role you've cared to take on.  _Any_.  Thus the total misinterpretation at the beginning, see."  _Please believe me, because I will go mad otherwise._

Mycroft reminds himself that there is still _no_ evidence that he has been betrayed, by Alexander.  "Ah."

"You've told me before that people might try to influence me as an acquaintance of yours.  Again. I'm sorry if it's brought you any discomfort."

"Yes.  Well.  It's not been a good morning.  Nor a good week.  Following a -- period of disorder," Mycroft replies.

"I thought so, you were rather quiet.  What's happened?"

"I've lost a critical contact, I'm afraid."

"Have you." 

"Moldavian.  A polyglot, of many faces, an extraordinary agent -- I recruited him myself, at a conference."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."   

Mycroft's eyes are tracking Alex's micro-expressions, again.  "He appears to have died of internal injuries and exposure, it will not be secret much longer.  We have lost his laptop, as well.  Of all places, near the Arctic Circle, in a remote site, with no retreat."

"Perhaps not all hope is gone." 

"Even exceptional lives must end.  A motif."

"Hold me a little, you're very tense, you're hardly moving." 

"True.  Additionally," Mycroft says.  "There are calls for reducing the patrols in Kosovo, too early by four months.  None of the available partners are in agreement as to a revision, but so far no accord on blocking it formally.  A -- state election in India under foreign pressures, not the usual ones, part of an emerging pattern." 

"You'll not want to be alone, tonight, though?" the artist asks, pleadingly.

 _No._   Mycroft shuts his eyes for a moment.  "Not especially."

"Really?  Mmm.  Your back will need work.  Why do we always have other places to be than in bed, remind me.  I know I've had an absorbing guest, but, seriously.  Oh.  You know, I have a card for you," Alex says, a tone brighter, withdrawing just enough to reach into his jacket pocket, "though I didn't get to finish it, for reasons."

"I've a trifle for you, as well.  Which was not to say your card is a trifle."

"I haven't written the last words...."

"A puzzle?" Mycroft asks.

"Read it, and deduce what they would have been."

"You reckon I can.  Show me your handwriting, it should give a hint or two as to your state."

Alex hands over the card.  "Give it go.  A word of warning, I was...so...." 

Mycroft glances it over and reads in a whisper, though he already has the impression of the full text in his brain, "'Before I knew better, I thought your lips rather rigid and unforgiving in expression and I could not have imagined how they would feel on mine and how they would give the most perfect attentions to every place on my neck and elsewhere....'  Ah-mm." 

"Because they do."

"'Your tongue, I meant to point out, can be soft or light though when.  It.  Begins to feel like a finger, I am lost.'  I see.  And I should infer what you would have written next."

"Mhm."

"Had my brother not interrupted your reverie.  Menace."

Alex purrs, and daringly kisses the tip of Mycroft's nose.

His eyes are soft.   _A_ _s will be the inside of his mouth_ , thinks Mycroft, and grasps the artist's cheek and pecks it before saying, "Regrettably, I've no card in return...."

"What, kitty?" 

Mycroft puts a hand into his own jacket and removes a pressed wool pochette, with a superbly detailed, olive and violet Mughal print.  Alex goes for words and laughs a bit helplessly, instead.  "Well-suited to an appointment at the V&A," Mycroft remarks, for him.

"Just gorgeous, is what it is.  Your brother will snatch it from me in a heartbeat."

"Let him try."  Mycroft folds the pocket square twice and slips it lightly into the slit over Alex's heart, smoothing the tweedy lapel over it.  

"Thank you.  Oh my God."

"You, beauty," Mycroft says, cupping Alex's chin in his hand, and catching the artist's eyes with his own, "need no embellishment whatsoever."

"Kitty."

"And yet at my own peril, I have added one."

"Oh my God.  How on earth did you know I'd wanted this very design, and colour, everything?" 

It seems poor timing to mention that Alex's browser history (particularly from the earlier months of their acquaintance) has stood in as the British Government's muse, when need be.  But few things could cheer Mycroft right now more than the innocence in Alexander's enthusiasm, and gratitude, and he wishes that were easier to express.  "My pleasure," he answers.  "On second thought, stand well back from Sherlock, today."

"So lovely of you," Alex exclaims.  "Now how did you know I liked it so much?  Nobody got one, or almost nobody, it sold out ages ago!"

"It did.  In several minutes, while we were busy attending a wedding," Mycroft answers. 

"Really?  I.  Oh, kitty.  Kitty, you.  Now.  You must remind me."

"Yes?" 

"Because I really don't remember right now."

"Ask." 

"Why is there -- the rest of the world?"

Mycroft shrugs.  "I too should like to know."

"Kiss me, finally, you're driving me absolutely mad, if I didn't know better I'd say...you _weren't_ trying to take me apart.  Because you absolutely are doing so."

"Perhaps better tonight, whatever you can bear."

"Everything, I -- I told you, already, it was a nose-bleed, not -- hnnn, I shouldn't think too much or I will not be able to walk.  But last time you were so perfect."

"In your silks, please."

Alex gets his kiss.

"Kitty.  You've still not deduced the rest of my card."

Mycroft considers -- or acts as though he must deliberate over what he would want to see, in Alexander's slanty writing, for his eyes only, right this minute.  He cocks a brow.  "How was it, then.  'Though when it begins to feel like a finger, I am lost'," he recites.  

"The ending, though?"

"'I have chosen the path to my own undoing and yours'."

"Hnnn.  What?"

"'Tonight I will surround your tongue, with the darkest and most secret of places my beautiful body has to offer.  Yours faithfully'."  


	26. Pray tell

"Sorry."  The photographer slips out of the Green dining room at the V&A café, and swerves past Alex, who catches his sleeve in surprise; together they nearly bump a server with a tray of cream tea.  "You're not here to see me."

Alex looks his friend over incredulously.  "What? Carly, where are you -- what's the matter?"

"Go in.  _Go_.  Talk to him."

"Wait!" Alex growls.  "To whom."

"I'll explain everything --"

"Wait.  You will not leave, yet.  Good morning, anyhow."

While more interesting than the opening gambit Alex had expected from his friend, the sight of Carly's throat working over a knot, the way he seems unable to hold still or answer clearly, startles Alex into a completely new awareness that -- Sherlock's premonitions may be as spot on as he's feared.  He rounds the corner of the panelling closest to a favourite leaded glass window, and gazes down at the person who has apparently taken Carly's appointment.  _Oh, hell_.  "Mr. Robert Culver," he begins.  He struggles briefly for words that might best emulate the confidence and indifference he would like so much to have in such moments.  A much-cherished phrase (from a library room, in a voice he would come to want to _lick_ whenever he hears it) slips from his mouth:  "The delay has been a curious one."

Culver flashes a smile and goes to stand.  "I suppose it has!  Which is why I'd like ask how much time we've got, Mr. Nussbaum.  Sitting down?"

"Ah, yes.  I'd not blocked off -- much.  Pardon me, I'll see off Mr. Parsons."

"Yes.  Of course."

"Have you ordered?"  Alex asks.  "Fine.  I'm not having anything, thank you.  One moment."  Alex turns and strides back out of that darkish annex room, nearly running into his first object -- his stony guard.  "Anthony, a word with Mr. Parsons and then I must ask that you accompany him home.  I have a meeting with Mr. Robert Culver.  No need to trouble Mr. Holmes, either, I'll vouch for your absence."

"Yes, sir."

Carly is standing aside, absorbed by something more than the glassed-in display of tarts and éclairs under his nose.  

"This is outrageous," Alex whispers to him.  "Whatever ties you have, to whomever, you'll have to unravel by yourself! How did this start and when!"

"They asked for contact.  After Reuben left those prints of you. He backed out."

"And you agreed! How could you!" 

"I thought they were Holmes' people, but later it was more about _F8 &C,_ a sort of political-artistic lobby.  Lexie --"

"I do not care to know how _they_ prevailed upon you, such that you have led me about.  How _could_ you!  This man -- if you are shown to have acted against Mr. Holmes and me, I cannot help you through any blowback, as you have apparently acted -- inexcusably."

"I wanted to help you." 

Alex shakes his head.  "Not so."  The artist steels himself with a vision of a crack in the committee and declares, calmly, "I intend this -- to be our last conversation, _in this life_.  You were better off when you still cared, about people's stories and loves and troubles.  If you are ever empty inside, you may fill yourself with their stories.  Aleppo, Basra, Caracas, Donbas, the list grows daily, of people with _real_ struggles against very dark interests, which are erasing them.  Pardon me, I've a meeting, it seems!"

"I'm so, so sorry.  They just wanted contact with you.  I wish I could explain why this -- went down this way."

A reply (that had once made Alex tear up on an officer's behalf, in the MOD) comes out all too easily:  "I look forward to reading the file."  Alex nods in the guard's direction.  "Go. Anthony?"

Sherlock had, at an unknown point, made a seamless entrance in his own white shirt (its sleeves rolled neatly above sinewy, healthy forearms), a requisitioned black cap over his hair, and a longish black apron.  A badge declares him _Tony_.  "Here you are, the _seasonal fruits_ are...listed," he haws through his nose, shoving an opened menu into Alex's hands. 

"No -- oh, _ah_ , yeees!"  The artist has tensed and then sighed through a helpless smile.  "Fruits, I'm all about fruits, yes."

"That took you an age," Sherlock whispers, in his own voice.  "Good riddance. You've taken a lesson from my brother in subcontracting."

Alex glances through the menu and mouths back, "God, I'm so glad you're here.  You've seen?"

Sherlock mutters, "Culver...this is going well.  Ties to one Herman Gruen, a 'pal' from Vienna, with fingers everywhere it matters, real estate, defence sub-contracts, pop-up manufacture, telecom in remote regions, and so forth."

"Technologies for covering up contracted war crime clean-up, if that's who I think it is," Alex whispers, now white around the lips.  He runs a finger down the list of coffees.  "Mm."

"Collects souls, as well.  My brother's held him off.  Coincidence?"

"Culver," Alex hisses, "has slacked off, your brother covers for it, too often."

"Culver hates my guts, wanted me imprisoned, just an aside."

"Right, then.  Bus something, dear, go." 

"We're recording.  The lady at the next table there works for me.  Well.  She doesn't _know_ the mobile in her bag is recording, but.  She's working for me."

" _Pray for us_ \--"

"What for."

"I was talking to our Holy Mother.   You might, too."

Sherlock propels himself away with an eye roll, and swish.  The Holy Mother's busy, he thinks.  Better to pay a visit to one's ginger sibling and be off to Eastbourne all the sooner.

***

"No need whatsoever to have troubled Parsons, nor engaged -- what was the name...Mr. Chokajov," Alex begins.

"You're a hard man to find," Culver remarks, picking up his teacup for a blow and sip.  "So.  Now that we're here."

"Yes."

"We felt it necessary to assess the scope of possible cooperation, purely a pragmatic decision.  The stakes are high."

"Yet this has had an amateurish feel about it," Alex replies, "and frankly I'd not have connected it with any member of a committee under Mr. Holmes."

"As behoves one attempting to avoid _said_ Chairman's influence," Culver says, visibly affected by Alex's remark.

Alex chalks up that show of discomfort to the acceleration he has, himself, introduced to the exchange, without truly knowing how best to proceed.  Culver is no master of body language and nuance, certainly, which is helpful.  The artist unblinkingly attempts another logical leap:  "I understand you're moving over to an advisory position on the board of one of Mr. Gruen's subsidiaries and we will not serve together on any committee.  Why should we meet?"

The man rolls his lips inward and raises his brows.  "Well.  Mr. Nussbaum.  No such long-reaching plans have been set in stone, though there are plenty of opportunities for those who share a common vision."

"Common vision?"

"Advisories, policies.  As to directions we have yet to take, with our security packets."

"Ah.  Should I understand that the committee itself has become too politicised?"

"I will not deny that the current direction is not in line with my vision of our place in Europe.  Others share my concerns.  It seems like a good time to step away and put energies to good use elsewhere.  The private sector has more room for movement." 

"That would be consistent with the missing benchmarks, on the purchase recommendation.  With regard to the presence in post-occupation projections for Syria -- ah, when you were on leave, in Austria."  (Alex has little trouble recalling spoiled lovemaking, due to paperwork, when there is a name to put it to.)

Culver has been thrown enough by what he perceives of Alex's scope of knowledge, that he seems ready to put forward the main point of the bizarre baiting game:  "I would like to introduce you to someone."

"Herman Gruen," says a silvery-blond man of perhaps sixty, who has risen from a seat at a round table not more than a yard to Alex's right.  He has not waited for an introduction, after all.  Alex notes that -- Culver is entirely subservient.  No wonder, he thinks, when there is a powerful air in this direct manner, indicative of status, and an overfull plate of expectations. 

"You have my attention," Alex says, following the man's descent into the space next to Robert Culver.   _Gracious Mother._

***

Mycroft and Sherlock have each enjoyed cups of tea -- in the past, separately, with other people.  Those Andrea had brought in some time before (thirty-six minutes earlier, should one care to gauge Mycroft's present tension levels) have gone cold, untouched, which is just as well, given Sherlock's penchant for tossing vessels to the floor.

"A tat for a tit," Sherlock remarks, finishing his enigmatic description of how Alex had told off Carly, in public.  "But you'll want the video or it didn't happen.  Give my regards to Nikita."

"No need."  Mycroft folds his hands and leans his elbows on his desktop.  "Nikita's activities are no concern of yours, any more.  Do not attempt to engage him in your side shows."

Sherlock brushes at a bit of fluff on his jacket, undoubtedly from Alexander's grey topcoat, and drops it on Mycroft's desk.  "No?  You haven't done it, though.  No surprise."

"Done what," the elder Holmes answers.

"Deleted what Alex asked you to."

"A matter of timing, that is all." 

"Whose?  Oh.  His.  It must strike you sometimes, how if he turned, there wouldn't be much to pick up after."

"Ah, a new warning from one wholly unaccustomed to cleaning up, noted, thank you," Mycroft says, shaking his head and then straightening his back.  It is threatening to lock up right over his arse. "There are more pressing matters than another _chto, yesli_ from you with zero specifics."

"You're not doing it, for a reason.  What."

"At best, a short-lived period of civil unrest.  Someone's concerted campaigns are compounding in media outlets, in ways I'm not confident we can overturn in time."

"The usual?"

"Nothing usual in this, brother.  War is coming.  And until we know --"

"La la la.  Moreover, what would the _Lady_ think, were she to discover who Alex is?  Or Sir Edwin, resident windbag.  Or Robert, Leonard, and _Seth_ , whose word matters far less than the cloth stretched over the flab of their collective --"

"Have respect, brother mine, for the last handful of people -- who have everything to do with a _brittle_ status quo nobody may care to back much longer!" 

"So you string Smallwood along.  Have for years.  Not only over me."

"A matter of little consequence, for just as long."

"You'd have settled things.  Or would you have.  I'm not sure either of you know how."

"Such matters require delicacy," Mycroft says.  "And wither of their own accord."

"Either them or you, so they say,"  Sherlock shrugs.  

Mycroft blinks and cocks his head to the side, a flash of buoyancy in his eyes, stemming to no small degree from what is coming his way in the evening, in silk.  (He hopes to kiss Alexander's silk-clad feet while the artist leans over his cock and kisses its very tip and finally swallows him down the entire length of his tongue, until he says he'd love far more, and kneels, exasperatingly covered in silk pants, perhaps a tunic, and a robe, all buttoned or tied, and gives first his thighs and palm, then his slick hole, and laughs and gasps through the first and next few thrusts, keening and kissing whatever he has set in front of him, a wrist or fist, his little arse and narrow back fitted perfectly beneath, the flat of his stomach ideal for a man's -- this man's -- broad, long hand.) 

Sherlock has been chattering, and has even jumped out of his chair.  "Could be painful but your shortcoming of being man and matter _might_ be forgivable.  People beset by emotions may be prone to...entering into relationships!  Ah.  She's actually still interested?  A long time to wait for one side to run out of steam, and take a leap, then again, you're both just that intractable.  You'll keep Smallwood on your side even longer, if you tell her _who he is_ before...anyone else does."

" _Lady_ Smallwood.  There is no need." 

Sherlock has begun pacing almost rhythmically in front of Mycroft's desk, each time nearing the door a bit more.  "Who _is_ he, though?  Oh, _definitions and boundaries are_ the -- "

"Another matter before you go," Mycroft cuts in.

"Oh?  Was I going?" Sherlock asks, batting his lashes at the opposite wall.

"Have you been in touch with Gregory Lestrade?"  (All deductions based on the tracing data suggest as much.)

"Yuuup."

"And pray tell.  How is he."

"You have a phone, on your desk.  Another in your pocket," Sherlock grins.  "Is that -- healthy?"

"I trust he's settling into his new roles."

"Of solving crimes without me?  Not so bad.  Not well, either, but things should be looking up."

"Brother!"

" _Ciao_.  Bellow.  I'm going home to John."

Mycroft gives him a pointed look.  "Possibly not for long."

"Well, we are married."

"Enough."

"It sure is!  Bye."


	27. What everything entails

_Light fingers OK in certain cases only.  Alex_

_Took me less than 3 seconds, you >6 hours.  SH_

_Seriously when did you even take it?  Alex_

_Fruit menu, pocket square removed inside second menu.  SH_

_OMG Enjoy while you can.  Alex_

_Mughal 12.IV edition.  Will do.  SH_

_Meaning bring it to me next trip or send with Roman!  Alex_

_Mughal 12.IV edition.  Will not do.  SH_

_Present from M!!!  Alex_

_OK  SH_

***

It is nearly nine in the evening and the artist is upstairs at Mycroft's house, washing up and slipping into the contents of his smallish brown leather travel bag. 

The British Government has spent too many hours bent forward in a chair, or else standing motionlessly -- now, his legs are slackly extended in tribute to a small fire at his hearth, of mostly embers; the soles of Mycroft's feet are soothingly hot and dry.  After setting a sheaf of papers aside and capping his pen for the evening, his brain rejects the organic patterns in the texture of a glowing oak bough and is soon lost to a memory of his Alexander bent over the edge of the tall bed in heeled shoes, loose pants feigning interference to reaching his bottom; later, Mycroft had removed those shoes and kissed each of the perfectly formed, curled toes (he flexes his own) -- _on his back, legs wrapped loosely, occasionally one at near shoulder-height -- iris scent smudged at the ankles, or just above them, a distraction, the note of liquorice notwithstanding._ Mycroft glances about the room, out of habit, and gives himself an indiscreet squeeze.  He anticipates no difficulties there, aside from the usual negotiations with himself over the beginning -- as his mind supplies streams of liable intersections:  pain, fissure, angles, blunders and mishaps, fears -- as surely as he is himself. He shuts his eyes and rubs his lids until they spark. 

"Kiiitty!"  (Mycroft turns abruptly; Alex has managed to startle him, calling from atop the staircase, then backing away playfully -- audibly in heels, before he can be seen.)  "Ha ha, why are you making me wait, darling?"

Alex grins at the sound of Mycroft's step on the stairs, which he fancies is quick enough to indicate impatience -- but his man had asked for silks, and silks he shall have.  For his part, Alex has had that peculiar exchange at the V&A on his mind for hours and would most gladly turn his attentions elsewhere.  He has been cleaning up a bit indulgently, and dressing slowly, and has himself 'in a state', though he wears it with faultless manners.  _My spine is the straightest thing about me_ , he has occasionally joked under his breath, and this time too, he holds his head up and folds his hands at the waist as he would at any event with protocols in place, though this is one thing Mycroft would never want put on public view.

That irony is the guiding idea behind _these_ clothes, in fact:  they have already been seen, and not only at the top of Mycroft's massive wooden stairs.  Accordingly, the elder Holmes' pleasure is unequivocal in his features at first, but drops into analysis, in a second.  Alex smiles sweetly, as though unaware, and holds out his hand.  "There we are.  And you are even more dressed up," he remarks, taking Mycroft by the arm when he can.

"Autumn evening and draughts," Mycroft sniffs. 

"I'm only teasing."

"Ah." 

"How could I possibly be disappointed?"

Mycroft would be able answer that thoroughly, but says, "Well, I am not."  Curiously, or perhaps not curiously at all, Alex has chosen the identical set of clothes he'd worn when rushing out to Eastbourne -- minus a belted coat, and a shawl, he is still wrapped from the base of the throat to mid-thigh, in a heavy dark blue silk top -- somewhat more sophisticated than a gown or shirt, with fitted sleeves, and a knotted sash mid-ribcage at his left.  It is part of a luxurious set of 'house clothes'.  Its hemline, as it is being treated as a tunic, skims the top bands of sheer black stockings (Milanese, bought in a moment of fancy following a lifeless international debate on emerging AI in digital defence monitoring and brought home to London; there had been a stunning, if a bit frantic intercrural orgasm, and tender kisses to the nape of his own neck, his stroking at the artist's silk-clad knee draped over his own, his eyes tightly shut, cock leaking uncontrollably, a shocking, rolling pressure).  Said stockings, and much more could be said, are secured on black, grosgrain-covered garter clips.  Along with _those shoes_ it all creates an illusory precariousness which awakens something deeply possessive, with no acceptable name in the languages presently available to Mycroft.  _A deliberate reference_ , he muses, in one of his last rational  conclusions for the night, _to that less than desirable evening_.  It had been one of spiky words he'd rather forget having said (then there had come the dissonance of riding home in the darkness with Alexander curled in under his arm like a child, in clothes smelling distinctly of Sherlock, thus of John, too). 

Alex is suddenly back in sharp focus as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and explains, "We might do part of that evening over."

"No," Mycroft replies, trying to keep his tone non-accusatory.  "This one differs on too many points.  Fortunately," he adds, intending to extend a compliment. 

"If I'd never got out of London that night?" Alex tosses into play, lips curling up a little.

"I'd have preferred that."

"And I'd prefer that we'd never quarrelled over my pills or my wash basket."  _Or our status._

Mycroft clears his throat impenitently, then steps very close.  "So would I," he says, directing a firm, if brief look at perhaps the most beautiful male eyes in London.

"Mm?"  

"Had anyone seen you that night, and followed you."

"Someone might have done," Alex answers, with a touch of defiance in his tone that is difficult to interpret. 

"Don't ask me to imagine that."

"If you were the one to follow, though."

 _Ah_.  Mycroft finally tilts Alex's head back to give him kisses, one to the chin and the other to his lips, with a slight nip in it.  "Another matter."  (After another moment of reflection Mycroft realises that _being the one to follow_ falls very much in line with his earliest fantasies concerning _this man_.)

"What if you'd caught me and diverted me to a safe-house?" Alex asks.

"For what purpose." 

(Alex brushes the back of his hand over Mycroft's trouser fronts.  He backs away again, thereby leading the elder Holmes into his own bedroom, lest he had forgotten that he, too, can walk.  The shoes are pulled off carefully, with more grace than Mycroft can recall of other heel-wearers he's known; those memories are mercifully vague.)  

"Daunting in your sensuality, you likely troubled them," Mycroft murmurs to himself, reaching the edge of his bed, where he watches the artist taking a place near the middle.  He wouldn't know how to word the relief he feels whenever these small distances are closed.

"Troubled whom?" Alex asks, holding his arms out again.  "Darling."

"Whom.  I -- was referring to John's and Roman Wilk's likely reactions to these clothes.  I may have told you that Wilk has had an adventure with a wolf in ladies' clothing.  No?  A story for a longer night."

"Sorry?  But he knew it was because of Anthony -- never mind.  They knew it was a disguise.  Kitty, hold me.  You do like it?  I thought you might have wanted to see it?"

"Whatever you should choose to wear, or why," Mycroft says, taking his place at Alex's right, their knees and calves just brushing, "you are fascinatingly pretty."

"Thank you."  Alex has already wriggled closer, the better to run a palm along his back and hip.  "Mm," he smiles, and nuzzles the nose of the most dangerous man in England, whose arse and magnificent bollocks still have two too many layers of fabric over them.  "Kitty, can you imagine how I love you tonight?"

Mycroft pauses to take that in.  "It is a pleasure to be asked," he says, "by you, to imagine such things."

"Oh my God.  Mycroft, that's so beautiful.  Isn't it.  What a day.  I cannot think of anything lovelier to end it with."

 _'Our last conversation in this life'_ , thinks Mycroft.  _Not a paraphrase, either, says Sherlock_.  Mycroft's confidence in their present configuration rests on several such declarations of loyalty, as heavily as he props himself on one arm, now, and bows his head down to kiss Alex's face.

"Mmm.  Tell me how you imagined me, when you were still downstairs," Alex says, taking Mycroft's free hand and kissing his knuckles before setting it at his waist and starting in on the man's shirt buttons, himself.

"Very much in accordance with your appearance, now --" Mycroft's fingertips are slipping into the knot at Alex's side.  "Not to suggest that you are predictable."

"Yet you know exactly what I want." 

Alex pulls Mycroft's shirt away and drops it behind himself.

"Please keep this.  If you would," Mycroft gestures at the blue silk top. 

"All right."  Alex slides Mycroft's trouser zip open.  "Oh.  Oh, darling.  Shall I help you.  With this.  Oh my God." 

"-- You are incapable of being less than magnificent," Mycroft explains.  "Ah -- yes, if you _would_.  Ah -- apologies -- and the matter -- that you would have to be very careful, were you to -- ah -- the vest as well?" 

"All of it.  Haven't you got madly large, how is that, mmmm, take them off for us...."

Mycroft leans forward and covers Alex's mouth in kisses while pulling himself free of his trousers and pants.  "You are, of course, behind this," he explains, choking a bit as Alex wraps a hand around his cock and rubs his thumb in sticky circles over his foreskin. 

"I want _you_ behind this," Alex lilts with an indecent lick of his lips.  His gaze drops to Mycroft's hand, where he is feeling up beneath the tunic, well above the tops of the stockings; his fingers have just made out the design of a soft, tied crotch over a substantial erection, indeed held in tightly by _two_ layers of fabric, damp by now in one place -- _no, in two_.  The images Mycroft conjures for its likely construction are unbearably arousing; he pokes a bit further back again, getting a hiss and moan from Alex, who seems to have anticipated starting quickly.  Mycroft's own desire puts him in pressing agreement.  "I would forego -- but would it not be too soon," he asks.

"Not too soon, no," Alex laughs softly and explains in Mycroft's ear, swiping it with his tongue, "Still a little open, after everything."

"Ah -- yes?" 

"Oh, there, please.  Yeah, yes.  I -- wanted you to come upstairs for it, didn't I."

"Yes."

"So why wouldn't I be ready for whatever you were bringing me."

Mycroft still wants to ask what 'everything' has entailed, and as if in reply Alex squirms toward his fingertips, with a word about how he would fuck them, but must they stop there, really, even if a finger or two or three would be perfect _right now,_ and then pushes his tongue into the next kisses so insistently that Mycroft nods mutely and reaches instead for his bedside drawer, and considers (as much as he can, supplicant to a throbbing erection) what 'everything' is, how the artist, his person and significance, are not reduced as much as expanded to fill his entire awareness with indulgence and kindness, in contrast to all _else_ , where manipulation, brutality, and the unapologetic annexation of rights, goods, lands and beliefs fashion sickening norms for a world that should have learned more over so many centuries of -- _acts_.  (He has managed to unroll a condom over himself, while on his side, without noting when.)  "You must stop me, little one," he says, fingers still tight around the base of his cock.  He is enormously turned on, emotions equally taut. 

"Refuse you, in your own bed?  Never."  Alex is pulling himself up onto his knees, teasing Mycroft's mouth with his tongue until he's got him sitting up, as well. 

"Be very careful," Mycroft ejects, as Alex climbs into his lap, his eyes now the heaviest of many, many points of allure -- in scent, material, hardness, softness.  

"When you were still downstairs...."  The artist's knees and thighs shimmer black, on either side of Mycroft's hips, and it is tempting to draw a comparison to his blown pupils, rimmed in intense silken blue.  "Is this what you were imagining?  Watching it all on my face, when you're filling me up to the throat?"

(Mycroft tries to answer, and loses a little war against his own tongue.) 

"Open them for us.  The panties, dear, only the one ribbon."

Mycroft runs his hands over Alex's arms, waist, thighs.  When he finds his voice again, he says, "Keep it all on for me -- it is perfectly --"

"Decent.  No, not decent."  Alex kisses him between the brows and gently guides his hand back, over his silk-covered perineum.  "Undo this one, there you are."

"The most exasperating yet, and I've not seen them --"

"Raven black."

"Black." 

"The ties in your fingers are a dark Prussian blue."

"Are they." 

"Now let me."

"Are --" 

Mycroft gasps as he feels himself grasped and pressed between Alex's arse cheeks, for an agonisingly erotic rub against the artist's tail-bone and palm.  Mycroft nearly _becomes_ the heat and movement over his lap, and is fearless in uttering the most personal respects one man can give another; even the manner in which their hair brushes at the temples, mixing there for a moment, _matters_ like little else could, in this world.  The artist's lips are softer than in any of Mycroft's solitary desk-chair fantasies, as nobody could do them justice except by licking them open, first with reverent attentions, then with the abandon they inevitably pull loose in his heart -- and since there is no grimace of pain and that mouth is in such a beautiful, light pant, Mycroft pulls it down to his again and again, and answers Alexander's growingly-rhythmic hums in longer and longer kisses, so much in love that he might not have remembered to breathe any other way. 


	28. Sign and token

Sherlock, head to toe in black (excepting a recently-acquired, colourful accent at the chest), has been radiant with want since he had got the door locked behind himself.  And that had taken two tries.  John has pretended not to notice so far, but it feels very, very good to be the object of distraction to that brain, and that body:  Sherlock is as glad to be home as John is to have him there, and all is well.  Finally.

Greetings and looking-over are as quick as a nod and the slyest of smiles from Sherlock followed by a small, almost whispered "Hey, you come here," from John.  Sherlock crowds his soldier, thinking of the sofa, and it's all the same to him who starts as long as it happens _soon_.  Now each man is pushing aside the fistfuls of material he has grabbed onto during their rather hard embrace.  "Ff, I --" ( _Missed all of this_.)  John doesn't get more out before his mouth, and what is left of his breath, are being taken. 

"Yes," Sherlock answers, leading John backward more firmly, but not entirely blindly, through another crushing series of kisses, which end at the end of the leather sofa as Sherlock has John on his back and two stacks of papers thrown theatrically aside to make space for his shoulders.  John stuffs a hand between the arm rest and the cushion.  "Where is -- uh, God, go on."

Sherlock pulls John's shirt tails out of his trousers a bit hard, tugging John's cock to the side as well.  ("Oi, still need _that_.")  Sherlock's eyes narrow desirously as John laughs a little "ha" to himself and watches his trouser button being opened for him, then the zip.  There hasn't been a wasted moment, or movement, thinks John ( _well fuck_ _me_ ) and goes to at least undo his shirt properly when he sees Sherlock poised greedily to pop his lips over his cockhead, hands out of sight.   "Missed me, eh.  _God_ ," John sighs. 

Sherlock's reply is a long, slow-sliding suck, against his hard palate; he comes up for a breath, humming to himself.  He has reached for his zip and shucked down his own trousers and pants by the time John wheezes out a laugh that doesn't mean "see" as much as "so do it". 

"Soap."  Sherlock's breath is already picking up as he goes down for another few long sucks.

When he needs a bit of air he chooses John’s open thigh to lick, fingers ghosting along favourite lengths of skin around the hips and lower stomach (another obvious candidate bobs impatiently, cooling just in front of his mouth).  He leans in for another taste, teasingly.  He is almost overwhelmed that it's been _days._

 _So little and yet so long_.

"You said that out loud," John grunts.  "You know."

"Mm?" Sherlock stares.

"I can live with that.  That was feeling amazing, by the way, don't have to stop, any of it."

"I meant -- who cares."  _Blast._ "I missed you very much." (John looks down at him so fondly that his head blanks even more.)

"Jesus, Sherlock, you're not going anywhere, that long.  Or stay somewhere where I can come see you."

"He doesn't mind."

"I -- nope.  No.  Oh, _oh_ , fuck.  Yeah, like that -- ah, yeah."  John arches his back into the rhythm of long tongue slips down the side of his cock.  _Best in ages_. 

Soon, Sherlock seems to have entered a crescendo -- which is _so bloody good_ , interrupted just long enough for a wordlessly-negotiated flip-over, the particulars of the bloody lube, and a few nibbles to the arse cheeks that are meant as "guide dots".

John is grinning at that when Sherlock issues a sudden order.

"Wh - at?" John coughs through a laugh.  "The what?"

"Our -- foot thingy.  _Kneel_ over it."

 John bursts out giggling.  "Foot thingy?  Like a slipper?" 

Timing notwithstanding it _is_ hilarious; Sherlock (cock in his right hand) is mid-alignment and gaping down at John with both love and sudden confusion, which on his face register (to John) as something like virginal uncertainty:  "The -- " Sherlock winces and purses his lips.  _Blast_.  "Foot-resting-thing, I deleted the name, John."

"Didn't delete it, you're horny."

"What is it."

"A _pouffe_.  Come here.  Come here, beautiful.  Hey."  

Sherlock leans down and kisses John's neck, needing to ground himself for a moment.  His hands are now busying themselves, rubbing down John’s back.  "Mhm."

"I've been wanting this.  You too?"

"A torment," Sherlock breathes, and gestures at the pouffe.  "Please, as you -- were."

This coerced, yet relaxed crouch seems to electrify John immediately; at his soldier's increasingly guttural encouragements Sherlock finally calms himself and pushes in, holding John's right shoulder down; John cannot cough back a groan at how good it is getting, even if the stretch is a little sudden this time and he's losing any hardness he'd got in his cock.   Sherlock pauses and kisses John's hair, sniffing it deeply, waiting for a nod (the little signal he'd dreamed of that very morning, a movement of the chin that is consent and dare).  "Your pulse," he whispers.

"I love you, gorgeous.  That's it, oh -- fuck, _yeah_.  Gghhhh, good.  Move, you're all right."

***

Alex is too wrung out to manage more than a shower (partly under Mycroft's watch and, eventually, arm support), and he then gracefully accepts a somnography test with Gladys; he has surprisingly little trouble drifting off in the mask by the time it is placed and fitted over his nose and mouth. 

Mainly to stop himself watching the sleep test from the doorway, Mycroft pads downstairs to check for messages.  He is nettled that he has a dozen or so, already, among them three urgent ones.  He goes to the kitchen in the dark and pours himself a tiny, but full glass of Porto.  He returns to his sofa, and raises the drink to his lips.  They are sensitive after so much contact; he pauses, thinking of the feeling of a glass on _less_ kiss-scrubbed skin:  how he cannot bear the idea of anything changing, how he would gladly keep this raw sensation as a token:   _has just been made love to_.  A shuffle of slippered feet from upstairs brings him out of a stare directed at the heavy curtained living room window, which covers the winter state of Alexander's garden.  (The artist is failing his breathing test in spectacular fashion, as Gladys will soon be impelled to inform him.)  Mycroft tries to keep himself seated straight, and positioned mentally above his own personal _orange-five_.  Easier said than done, when the muscles in his lower back are getting downright tetchy over being returned to a chair after a more pleasant charge. 

A decision must be taken.  He will view the footage from the V&A, after all, for why else would Sherlock have drawn his attention to it?  _You'll want the video or it didn't happen._

***

Sherlock rambles, post-coitally, in a deep, slightly hoarse tone that John particularly loves listening to -- when the world's best detective remembers himself and is filled with ideas, and a bit of mischief.  Like in the 'best of times', though any times, spent next to this man, are bound to be fantastic, John thinks.  He brags about (some of) his conquests for information in London, achieved out of the range of Mycroft's eye (he thinks).  John laughs to himself until he hears one particular strand of the tale:  "Someone in MI5, owes me a favour, well.  Now he owes me two.  He got a tip about sensitive papers in the possession of a photographer, on one Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock says as he rolls onto his back and looks up at the dark ceiling above his and John's bed, where they'd been stretched out since stumbling in from the living room perhaps a half-hour before.

John turns toward him, finding most of his view blocked by the edge of a pillow, which he scrunches away.  "What papers?  Photographer...you...did...not.  That guy?  How."

"His Auntie has poor window locks.  Ha, mm."  Sherlock feigns a yawn and swallows down his grin.

"Papers."   John licks his lips.  "Oh, God.  That's what Alex came here to talk to you about, isn't it."

"Some...older intelligence, not sure how it got on the market, not my problem.  Someone wants to impress Alex, not realising who they'd have to out-intel, to turn his head.  Not that it can be turned an inch, he's in blinkers the size of --"

"Wait.  Someone was giving intel _to_ Alex, not _through_ him.  That's a new one."

"None other than Herman Gruen, I believe."

"Who's Herman Gruen?"

 _Vienna, Vilnius?  Common denominator not being 'V'?_ "String puller.  Austrian businessman, acquaintance of the British Government.  Never mind."

"Okay.  Wait.  You're saying this Herman Gruen had intel that your brother _didn't_."

"Well.  It happens to the best of us."

John ignores that.  "And how did he -- unless it was -- oh, shit.  It was the ex?  That photographer?  Now I get it.  _That's_ how Gruen found a way to Alex.  Someone was bound to try.  Huh.  And you went and dumped all Alex's intel at his ex's _house_?"

Sherlock rubs his hands together, as if they weren't tingling with excitement already.  "Christmas is coming.  Now.  My brother, you may recall, or not, because why would you want --"

"I might?  What. Look, can you just explain everything?"  (There is a biting tone in that which suggests John could use a snack, at the very least.) 

Sherlock answers, "He took Alex to work, perhaps not to the highest level meetings, but.  And then they became --"

"Happens, just saying."

"What _happens_."

"People take someone to work, and then, you know.  Become lovers."  John sighs heavily, but not out of sentiment.  They aren't going to get far like this, he decides.  "Hey.  Come here.  I'm not actually angry.  But this could get ugly.  Where are things now, is all I want to know.  Kiss?"

"Mm."  Sherlock pouts for his lower, seemingly-ignored lip, then for the upper one, which has received a rather non-committal peck.  "Gruen hands over secret papers, about Mycroft's activities in the nineties, when he was in recruitment of agents from the former eastern bloc and disintegrating military cliques -- occasionally their disposal, as well.  In order to show Alex he is a legitimate player.  He likely has them from other personalities, meaning he'll probably want something from Alex, sometime.  Alex, in the meantime, doesn't find the papers terribly interesting, and even tells himself that Mycroft is testing him in preparation for a marriage proposal."

"Oh Jesus. Nope."

"Well.  Gruen and cohorts take his lack of response as a sign he's higher up than expected."

"He is, I mean.  Shit.  This is a bit not -- yeah." 

"Alex shows them to me and then hands them over for safe keeping.  Mycroft _knows_ he's had them.  The architect went off and told him.  You know, Dr. Jens Lindberg."

"Sure, who else."  John rubs at a crease in his forehead.  "Is it me or people don't know when to quit."

"People are idiots.  Then there's my brother, idiot prime.  Utterly besotted."

"Invested."  John shrugs.  "Would _you_ shake down Alex?  Not likely. Then again, even you believed his story about how he got them.  Perfect spy, if you ask me.  I could write a book about him.  Might do."

Sherlock bites the edge of his tongue.  "Alex knows my brother hasn't changed the marriage record. I told him."

"Shouldn't have told him, love. After all that when they were here."

"He's stupid enough to think it's about _sentiment_.  Wrong." 

"Oh, I don't know about that, Sherlock.  Listen.  Mycroft knows it's like pulling a plug.  A symbolic thing. I'd be willing to bet you were the one who told Alex to do that.  Sounds like something you'd cook up."

 _Cook up?_ Sherlock rolls his eyes.  Then he huffs, "And?"

"Well. That might be why Mycroft didn't end it.  Because he knows the idea to change the record came from _you_.  After Alex was here, talking to you.  Right?  Mycroft _senses_ it's not what Alex wants.  Daytime drama, this.  Why am I not surprised."

"John." 

"Your brother reads all your texts anyway, not hard to sort out that Alex did that because _you_ suggested it."

"Did not.  It was _a hand-written note_."

"Jesus.  And the messenger?  You don't think Alex has a guard for checking that sort of thing?  As if he'd just stand by and let someone hand Alex a note."

"And yet.  He was trying clothes at 'Liberty', for God's sake.  The _department store_ , in case you thought he was 'free' for a second," Sherlock remarks.

"Very funny.  Look.  If Mycroft knows Alex is getting intel, is that really the best time to have less legal leeway with your 'spouse'? Nope.  Of course he didn't react about Alex having papers.  He'd have to _do_ something about it. I wonder when he'll arrest that photographer. Hmm."  John nods and nibbles his lower lip.  "Easier than going after this -- Gruen.  Mycroft probably cooperates with guys like Gruen on things, like with -- you know."

"Who.  Oh.  Mm." 

"Just some of the other _fuckers_ who should be sitting in max security but run banks or something.  Europe.  World economy, or.  Fuck knows."  John is suddenly pasty; he sniffs and turns away.  "Always something."

"John." _Shall we tell him about the cases I handed Lestrade?  Nay.  At least not today._

"Look, we've been all right.  It's all right.  I just don't want anything -- going down again.  Anyway.  Sooo what else is new?"

"Mm."

John can hardly hold back but does.  He wants to tell Sherlock all about an upcoming holiday order, from London.  And what he wants to do to him, in it.  And how that is _going to feel fucking amazing_.  It feels so far away, at the moment.  Not only because it has probably not been cut and sewn up, yet.  There are too many topics in the way.  "Nah.  Listen, my love, where's your biop?"

"Shall I actually tell you?"

"Where is it.  I want to read it."

"Boring.  They are pedunculated, new and improved, and la dee da."

"I want to see it.  Hey.  Hey, now.  Easy," John says to Sherlock's back, as his phoenix has abruptly flipped onto his side and shut his eyes tightly.


	29. Enough

"I generally do _not_ search your pockets."

"Well, darling.  It hardly matters if you do." 

Alex has just made quite the unabashed claim, to Mycroft's ear; the elder Holmes brother has strongly mixed feelings just now, and explains in an impatient tone, "I intended to put the Mughal pochette in that jacket pocket, to surprise you --"

"And you did surprise me," Alex replies quickly, eyebrow raised.  _He knows Sherlock has taken it, and?_  

Mycroft removes a slim notebook from his jacket and pulls a slip of paper from inside its front cover.  It is the _end marital farce...post-haste_ note, in Sherlock's writing.  He holds it out in the fingertips of his left hand. 

"Ohh," Alex nods, swallowing.  "Yes, in my jacket, last I knew."  He does not move to take it, instead meeting Mycroft's eyes with the same mask of boldness that has characterised a number of their exchanges of late.

"Once I realised Sherlock would be inclined to take that pochette, which he would associate with his own wedding day," Mycroft continues, voice and face now blanked of recognisable emotion as he tucks the notebook back in its place. The note is still between them. "I removed --"

"Yes, well, he did take it," Alex says.  "I didn't even notice when.  He had to tell me, he was so quick, I didn't notice for ages."

"A matter of distraction."  Mycroft has tensed at these interruptions, which are also possible distractions.  He fingers the note as he explains, "I removed this so that it would not be pulled out of your pocket in public, and lost.  Later, I glanced at it, expecting it was a shopping list."

"Well, it was private." 

"Yet, when I gave you the pochette, your reaction suggested you'd entirely forgotten leaving this note in your breast pocket."

"Well, I _had_."

There is a moment of silence during which Mycroft reviews where he has heard such coolness in recent conversations with Alex, who he believes is slipping away from him, though he cannot say exactly why or how he has come to feel it.  He looks again:  Alex is so close -- and not trying to step back, at all.  His eyes are impossibly beautiful, still loving.  Their lids should be kissed -- any sane being would lean forward and do so, thinks Mycroft, and yet he cannot bring himself to do it.  Worse, he hears himself say, instead,  "I expect I will come to understand the full significance of Sherlock's scheme?"

"Scheme?"  Alex steps away. 

"Whatever he expects you to go along with, I should hope you think it through very carefully." 

"What!  Darling, this," Alex gestures toward himself loosely, " _this_ is not a side-car."

Mycroft glances away and exhales, "I have not implied it." 

"He has a better perspective on some things than you or I can."

"He most certainly does _not_."

"Yes, darling, he _does_.  Ginger kitty, let's not argue." 

"Endearments -- opiate."

"Really?"  Alex straightens.  "Why not just say it:  'Alexander, you shouldn't have asked me to end our marriage'."

"I think no such thing."

Alex clouds and pauses, wondering if Mycroft will mention that he has not changed the record after all, perhaps even say why not; however, his kitty does not betray a single sign.  So the artist utters a small "All right," with a certain bewilderment.

Nothing is _all right_.  And yet both men stubbornly pretend otherwise, even if for very different reasons.

An awful pause grows, one which to Alex seems to have a physical presence for its pressure on his chest.  Mycroft waits for Alex to admit that he has met with Robert Culver _and_ Herman Gruen (who had gliden in past the cameras at the V &A, face always averted toward Robert or a work of art so that even Mycroft had overlooked him on the first viewing -- for who would have expected to see _that_ unscrupulous sybarite in the place of Carlton Parsons?  (On the brighter side, Robert will soon claim he wants to resign, and Mycroft can hardly wait to accept, conditionally.  Hell, he might even place Alexander on the committee overseeing Sherlock's and other security matters). 

The origin of the 'Judas Diary' pages has come into sharp focus.  He laments the tearing apart of the second diary -- he had dreamed of getting it whole -- but looks forward to viewing what he can of it.  Sooner than later.

A tip from inside MI5 -- regarding a tip from _Sherlock_ , had brought Mycroft into a late-night deduction -- and he is convinced that inside of a book on a shelf near Parson's bed, there will be some relics of his own career that need retrieving.  Frankly speaking, the only thing that stands between Mycroft and those papers now is the choice of exit gesture toward Parsons -- and that is pending a reply from a French press agency who has just lost two of its most promising photojournalists. 

***

Alexander is in a secure hospital room, nearly two hours' drive away, for a longer battery of sleep tests.

That would be stressful enough.  Is.  Enough.

_One shall not let up, however, in the face of griefs._

Parsons' auntie has poor locks on her windows, as Sherlock has claimed elsewhere.  Her front door presents no challenge of its own, and Mycroft enters, pleased above all that he is wearing several pieces of Alex's dark clothing under these unique circumstances.  It feels almost cinematic to enter the photographer's cluttered bedroom as he does, catching the man in his deepest phase of sleep.  

_For some still sleep untroubled in this city._

The benignly familiar but unexpected overhead light wakes Parsons; when he realises who is there in the middle of his bedroom, in black, down to his long, gloved hands, he passes through shock and horror so schematically that Mycroft stands by with double calm, even a shade of amusement.  Greetings are, as usual, unessential between them.   As far as Mycroft is concerned, this is a natural continuation of every conversation they have had. 

_"The middle of the night, why, what is this?"_

"Moreover, the middle of your last night's sleep in London," Mycroft quips.

"What?"

" _Last_." 

Carly's eyes, still adjusting, widen almost comically:  "You can't do that, what the fuck does that mean?  You're going to kill me?"

"It means an assignment that will keep you away."

"Not now.  No, I can't."

"Wrong."

"Not going anywhere, you can't do that."

"And should you return to London you will immediately be apprehended as an enemy of the Commonwealth.  Whether in my lifetime or that of my successors," Mycroft adds, addressing the rage radiating from the choleric photographer, who is standing up from his bed.  He wouldn't stand a snowflake's chance should he actually do what he seems about to -- but let it not come to that, decides the elder Holmes. 

"I'm supposed to believe you.  On what charges, when I haven't done anything."

"Haven't you." 

"Nice.  Not yet, anyway."  Carly glances around the room, panting, and then lunges forth with a desperate yelp and throws that foolish punch -- Mycroft easily ducks, and drives a left hook into Carly's jaw, catching, and then snatches the reeling man by the arms, flipping him to face his curtained window -- for there shall be no witnesses -- and knocking him to his knees from behind.  Grasping Carly's neck, stuffing a thumb roughly into the divot at the base of his throat, Mycroft hisses ambiguously, "Finished?" 

There is no way Carly can answer verbally, nor can he easily nod; Mycroft chooses that moment to remind him of the delicate play which is life, and rotates Carly's head for him.  "Plenty more of that, in store, whenever you're ready," he says.  Then he lets go of said prickly neck and Carly drops to his own bare floor.

"Ffffuck you," Carly moans.

"Manners."

"God --"

"I take it you _are_ ready," Mycroft steps forward.

"No.  No, sir."

"So?  Have you anything to say?"

"Look.  Look, I didn't want this," the photographer gasps, rubbing at this throat.

"Really.  Nor did you want the incentives, I suppose."

"I didn't know.  I didn't know -- what they -- wanted.  There weren't -- incentives, if you mean the show?  The photos for the show?  They didn't give them over, it was a lie.  There weren't any, you can check it.  I never got them.  Just a couple of Alex and I gave them over."

 _Photos._ "And you've placed him in danger, all this time.  Is it what you wanted, perhaps to open a 'path' for a rescue."  (Mycroft knows that is not likely but the word 'path' needs to be stated.  It has its intended effect.)

"No!!  No.  No.  Not that.  He deserves the -- best of everything -- on this planet."

"Yes.  That's where I come in," Mycroft remarks, stepping back toward the bookshelf he had come to see, keeping one eye open in case of a renewed attack; personally, he'd choose the nearby chair to the kidneys but Carly no longer appears able to do much more than breathe, and watch hard facts unfold in front him.  That bit Mycroft can appreciate.

"What are you looking for.  I don't have anything."

"Ah."  Mycroft, with no bemusement whatsoever over his brother's sense of 'humour', pulls out a copy of a familiar encyclopaedia of homoerotic arts.  The volume creaks in Mycroft's hands as he cracks open the front cover and hums.  His fitted gloves, admittedly, give the moment a needlessly lurid air.  "You admired his once, so he gave you this copy, with a dedication.  Ah -- the haste and vigour in the hand he wrote in:  ' _Darling Carly, now we are both yours forever.  Lexie_ '."  Mycroft flips the volume open more fully, to a photograph of an ornately painted Grecian urn, undoubtedly favoured by Sherlock, and extracts a sheaf of papers.  He raises the book to his nose for a moment.  "As you deserted him so soon afterward, when would you have looked at it.  And _these_ ," Mycroft adds, indicating the papers, "appear to have been perused plenty of times.  What have we...."

"What is that!  What -- what -- are.  Those doing here."

" _Back_ in your possession, are they.  Ah, it appears all of them are about me."  Mycroft issues a crushing glare Carly's way.  

"I -- swear, I don't know what those are."

Mycroft agrees internally. 

Carly moans, "All a set-up!  Another set-up, another one!"

"You agreed to none of it? Mm."

"Not to -- what you think." 

"Ah.  Because you fancy you know what I think?"  Mycroft's eyes glitter, black and tight as coal.

"No.  No, I.  No.  I don't, I swear, I'm sorry.  No."

"Then I'll tell you.  Your transport, Mr. Parsons, will leave for a region near Mosul tomorrow night.  It's...nearly four in the morning, now, meaning you've 34 hours to make your peace with London.  You may notice camera drones; they are merely a precaution.  Hush.  Stay well back from the Thames.  My people will be in touch."


	30. Peace dove

The Winter Solstice has become a surrogate Christmas for Mycroft, its main advantages being the length of its night -- promising, given the erotic sensibilities of his partner -- and its proximity to that "widely-observed gift-giving holiday", which provides an extra opportunity for delighting said partner.  (He is especially pretty to watch when over-excited.) The elder Holmes has just received a "Solstice" gift that forces reflection, in part because of its ring-box-like packaging, juxtaposed with Alex's radiant and hopeful face.   

It is a thoughtful present, indeed:  the artist has chosen a small, gold seal fob for a watch chain, which Mycroft first takes for Etruscan revival but quickly deduces as more contemporary Italian, with a bevelled citron stone set in its base; it has been carved with an intaglio image of a dove in flight, bearing an olive branch, and an inscription.  Alex explains that he had got it while wandering about in Venice, from a jeweller whose family works restoring treasures for the Musei Vaticani.  "Should we be in Rome someday I'd like to visit them," he says, kissing Mycroft's cheek, and neck, "and then spend the rest of the time in bed with you.  But then when would we view the antiquities?"

"Antiquities are old studies at waiting," Mycroft replies. 

"Better than I am?"

Mycroft smiles to himself.  He examines the little seal in the light of the lamp closest to his sleek sofa.  " _Et in terra pax._ Were it only --"  Mycroft stops himself finishing that thought, as he too longs for a notion like 'peace on earth', and says, "' _Rara avis in terra'._ " 

That is what he has at hand, nearly every day:  a little dove, who has just reached for his shoulder to steady himself, and nip his mouth with kisses.  "Yours is there, as you can see," Mycroft gestures at the end of his sofa, where a box wrapped in off-white paper is held closed with a raw edged, linen ribbon intended to imitate twine, ironically.

(Mycroft gets a kiss on the tip of his nose, which is left a bit wet.)

"For now or later on?" Alex asks, touching his own lips.  "You've no idea how good that tasted."

"You don't mean my nose, surely.  Now.  I've given you trousers," Mycroft says, spoiling any chance of surprise, out of a sudden need for level-headedness:  "'Too many cooks'.  Carter and Vince both wanted a hand in them."

"Your tailors...wanted their hands in my trousers?  Is what I'm hearing," Alex fans himself and then bends down for the box, self-consciously enough that Mycroft decides an item of silken lingerie is to blame (or, to be thanked).  The pair is quickly unwrapped -- they are fitted, dark grey wool, with wide, buttoned cuffs meant to graze the ankles, intended to be fitted over calf-length boots.  While not one of Frederick's costume-like creations, they have echoes of Edwardian-type leisure tweeds, as filtered by the Italian/English duo.  "They're _so pretty, oh my God_.  You always know what I love.  _You are what I love_!  But these.  Oh!  The _lining_ , seriously?  This is a pattern out of the _Wiener Werkstatte_ , isn't it.  Oh, look at it!"

"And Vince thought it was Bauhaus," Mycroft remarks.  "From a Parisian mill that is using this twill for a run of pocket squares.  Hoffmann-esque.  I was certain you'd recognise it." 

"Your brother will hate me forever if he sees this."

"Then ensure he does not catch you without them," Mycroft retorts.

"Easier said than done.  And he gets into my pockets now and again.  Hands in trousers.  What, kitty?"  Alex winks and abruptly unbuttons the placket of his trousers.  He hands them off to Mycroft, who matches their creases before dropping them over the back of his sofa.  "It's just a pity it all has to stay hidden to the world," the artist adds.  That is a bit too close to his true thoughts, but he laughs it off.  "These are incredibly soft.  I'll be petting my own thighs all the time!"

Mycroft's eyes seem to have darkened substantially in two or three seconds, after so many ambiguous remarks, _and_ a glimpse of a pair of nearly-translucent, black silk voile pants behind crisp white shirt-tails.  "Yes," he says, quietly.

"At your side, in public.  Is that wise?"

 _No, it is not_.  "Turn about?"  The elder Holmes raises his chin approvingly.  "Very good.  We'll have dinner, in about an hour." 

"It's nearly Christmas...."

"And that does put one off food.  Even so, dinner.  And Gladys will leave us at eight."

"A short break from the holidays would serve us, too."

"I beg of you." 

"That's a lad," Alex answers, "I'd like to see you in _your_ present.  Upstairs."

Mycroft narrows his eyes; his perplexity is brief.  "Ah.  Not without certain technical hitches, so to speak." 

There is a moment which is nearly as charged, thinks Alex, as the one they'd shared under a hidden staircase, before a cautious kiss.  "I just remembered something you said.  When I first told you that I thought of you a lot," Alex says.

"'Often, dare I say, in return'," Mycroft fills in easily.

"I really did."  Alex's eyes are burning; he closes them for a moment.  "Well.  You said, 'I don't engage you much'.  Have you ever been so utterly mistaken, since?"

Mycroft has.  He nearly groans aloud. 

Alex continues, "I had never been so completely absorbed by thoughts of anyone, which is saying something.  Sorry, but it's true."

"Neither had I." 

"It hasn't changed.  I remember perfectly, how I felt when I realised I wanted to be yours, that whatever else I saw in other men was being measured against a certain nonpareil."  Alex has lowered his voice, and the effect is stirring, in already-warm places.  "And how nothing I could do to myself would ever feel as good as a touch from you."

That is well beyond hot to Mycroft's ears (they are probably getting red, like his neck _but much less splotched_ , he thinks, as if to reflexively stave off something that _need not be_ calmed, or stopped, in fact -- and then relish in the latter, for that is the way of his brain).  His ideas for seducing Alex are cemented:  merciless kissing, thigh sex with a warming oil that smells faintly of myrrh and cinnamon.  _Too seasonal, perhaps._   "Shall we?"

"Mhm.  Whatever you've just been thinking of.  Tell me a little about why you look so hungry, darling?"

Mycroft's eyes drop to the narrow space between himself and Alex, and the line of material lightly broken by cock, inside those very fitted, pretty new trousers.  He finally answers, "Sometimes there are only impressions, or broader scenarios."

"About...what?"

Mycroft elects to play along. 

"Can you tell me one?"

"Steady," Mycroft reminds him, so Alex holds Mycroft by the arm and listens to an uncommonly detailed reply as they ascend the staircase.   "Once, as many other times, we had reviewed letters and papers for the better part of the day.  By rights you ought to have been as discouraged as I was, yet as soon as I touched your arm, your entire manner changed."

"Mmm."  

"You moved into an embrace, easily," the elder Holmes adds, though he has many other thoughts on that exact detail, which is one of his favourites to revisit.  "And soon after, everything came off.  Blue suit trousers, first.  Then my socks -- from your feet, due to a logistics mishap the day before.  Your maternal great-grandfather's engraved cuff links were quickly stuffed into my pocket, and are still mixed in among my own, and we pulled your white shirt straight over your head, good riddance, as you'd worn it with three buttons open for hours.  Hair out of place.  Charming, long around your ears.  My silhouette was in your pupils due to the light.  Even I could appreciate it, thus framed."

"Ohh...." 

"Another?  We had spent an hour at the fire and you left for the upstairs, but you'd not said good night, and I elected to wait for you.  Indeed, you returned in a white silk nightshirt, and stood for a moment, lambent from the fire behind you."  Mycroft takes in a quiet, long breath.  "Your requests were simple, that I should open my own shirt, and kiss you 'where I liked'."

"I hereby renew those requests." 

"The more aroused you were, the more you demanded.  Your patience and impatience slide along a favoured continuum."

 _Favoured.  Oh, kitty._ "I probably wasn't very patient, whenever that was." 

"You were.  Last December the tenth --  I remember the reading you were helping us 'forget'.  Unfortunately, still relevant to a certain oncoming scuffle between ministerial department heads, in -- "

They have reached the top of Mycroft's stairs.  "Here...or in the blue room?"

"Here, in yours.  You have something new, because I think you're a little nervous, and it wasn't over these trousers.  Ha!  Am I right?  Really?  Now tell me another?"

"I think of you, crouched like a sphinx," Mycroft says, biting his lips.

"A -- sphinx." Alex splays the fingers of his free hand, to better imagine it.  "Oh.  I see, on the floor!  Ah ha ha!  But they generally have their bottoms _down_.  Or tails raised in warning." 

"Not yet described in that posture, in the published literature," Mycroft replies, so matter-of-factly that Alex bursts out laughing. 

"Have you looked for one!"

Mycroft's cheeks seem a degree too warm.  "I'd find it difficult to share with the world, as well.  When I see that motif, I think of you resting on your forearms with your nails burrowed in the carpet, in place of claws."  Mycroft rolls his lips over his teeth but still cannot stop a smile, and continues, "I was nominated to accompany several guests to Harrods.  I ought have refused at once, yet there were several points in the conversations I knew I could facilitate informally as the translator rather than 'brokering', later, with others' interests in play.  I was flopping like a marooned fish.  Between English and Chinese, Chinese and Turkish, English and Turkish, their repartee over Hermès scarves  and Clive Christian for this wife or that lover.  Imagine the welcome distraction on the staircase."  Mycroft winces in mock disgust.  "It is not an attractive sphinx, which attests to _plenty_."

"Oh my God.  I think we should pay a visit to the British Museum," Alex giggles.  "We have to."

 Mycroft shakes his head.  "After hours if at all.  Besides, I prefer the sphinx in house clothes with open seams, despite their adverse effects on my work."

"Oh," Alex replies, with a little intake of breath.  "I've often feared it's the opposite -- that your work has adverse effects on your enjoyment of my house clothes."  _Not to say of me, as well._

" _Dura necessitas_ ," Mycroft murmurs, eyes tracking Alex's entire face as he analyses the remark, and several others, carefully.  "And that was not a true opposite."

Alex's smile flattens a bit.  "I was teasing."

"It was more."  

"I want as much of you as I can possibly have, Mr. Holmes."

"Then may nothing more come between us."

The two men gaze at one another ponderingly.  But that cannot last long.  As much as Mycroft has on his mind, and as large a weight as Alex has on his heart, love is still greater.  

Mycroft swallows drily, " _Apropos_.  Loosen your trousers, we've seen enough of them."

"Ha!  Do you think so?" Alex answers, and accepts several long, lingering and insistent kisses, followed by one even longer, broken only by a nibble over his smile, as he pulls open his new flies rather clumsily and admits to being a bit overwhelmed.

Mycroft slips his fingers into a ribbon looped into a tiny bow-knot, just over the artist's hip bone, and pushes at the pants, as pretty as they are.  "Enjoy, if I can bring enjoyment."

"Kitty?"

"Ask."

"I need a blow job."

"Yes, you do."

"Oh my God.  With every light on in the room.  All four of them."

"Alexander."

 ***

_Dear volume, I was thinking earlier how it is hard to seek things without expectations, since we tend to assume that's the point of our seeking.   Does that make sense?_

_After a reread I can say that Kitty would have written that so much better.  I needn't ask for a paraphrase, though, since I need look no further than his eyes, which could be guides to even the most hopeless of wanderers, like myself.  He is so bright.  Last night was glorious, in a word.  Tonight, without him, so much darkness, like an oncoming faint that will not allow one to fall in or turn away.  I almost fell asleep at the table, a strange feeling, head forward, followed by the shoulders, then I felt as though my heart had dropped, and I let it, and then woke up completely.  It turns out I stop breathing even more regularly (meaning frequently) than S had thought, namely up to 48 'events' per hour.  The night, long an adversary, still wants to win but I will not let it._

_What am I even writing.  Not doing well, were we to be entirely candid, and I have no reason to mislead you, beautiful-and-hardly-used-book.  It may come across that way, in the big picture, to my kitty, that I am not informing him enough.  I just want this all over, whatever it is supposed to be for, and that they will see I have nothing to offer in the way of intelligence, in any sense of the word._

_I have an idea for an essay I would call On Practicable Paths for Local Deradicalisation and if I could concentrate I would write it and give it to him._

_Back.  An invitation I would gladly refuse.  Portraits, and I only agreed to appear for a donation of 15,000 in the name of the guest of honour -- an affair for a retiring personage, name already escaping my silly brain/fact sieve.  It is likely that Gruen is the sponsor of this particular "session" as he wants to talk._

_I hate to write this down.  It turns out M has been following the political aftermath of an assassination plot + bizarre trail of funding and interests behind it, and his conclusions and forecasts are so disturbing (even if not likely to be continental in reach) that I am reluctant to ask him to talk it through, much.  Reasons.  I pray we do not resort to military means._

_Word from Cape Town, to be discussed with Abram in-office, tomorrow!  Let us think of that, instead._

_Or something even better:  when M smiled and his hand was perfectly meshed in mine (he does not always like that) and as it happened he was completely naked, not trying to slip under bedclothes, he was ('in grave peril' &c) of being asked for his hand -- he gives a magnificent hand, ha, but I am trying to tell you, book:  I would like to, someday, and I am even afraid to put 'it' on paper.  Hope is at a premium.  He is the dearest he has ever been in bed, and his love is clear and intense & I am literally crying that we cannot be that way, always, that there are so many interferences, troubles, obligations. _

_At least I am going to Eastbourne to deliver Xmas gifts to J & S!  With Roman W. _


	31. Something foolish

Mycroft has risen from his desk chair mid-sentence, pulled his watch from his waistcoat, and then glanced instead at the screen of the mobile set on the corner of his desk.  A wink of blue indicates that his driver is outside the _Diogenes_.  "Rodney's arrived.  Have you gathered your things?  Good."  He nods shortly at Alex, who had been listening with concentration to recommendations, or rather revisions on the scope of 'forward presence' in the upcoming quarter. 

The artist's head is full to bursting and they'd not got to outlines for any of the plenary sessions.  "Thank you, darling," he murmurs.  

"Your route?" Mycroft inquires, pocketing his watch again as Alex stands and fingers a jacket button more or less at the base of his sternum.

"Sorry?  Oh.  From here, to Frederick's atelier, and I'll tell you more once I've talked to Abram.  Oh, never mind, I'll tell you.  A designer label would like rights to produce some of the house clothes we've designed this last year.  Pants for badly behaved Catholic draughtsmen."

"I've never encountered such a person.  Broaden your target demographic."

"Mmmm.  Pants for the pleasure of our best minor government officials, offering efficient access to key assets.  Even now, should one care to try his hand at it."

His mind having been read rather well, Mycroft inhales through his nose for a good three or four seconds.  (Three and a third.)  "The next point on your route," he then prods. 

Alex's features say 'your lap, should you as much as double-blink', but he says, "My solicitor's, of course."

Mycroft raises a brow in spite of himself.

"Kitty, I have some --"

A sharp knock at the door startles the artist; Mycroft backs away and crosses his arms.  "Yes," he says a notch louder than necessary, and blanks his face as he turns his eyes to the other side of the room.  Alex reaches for his leather folio, which he somehow misses; it drops to the floor and he goes down very quickly to scoop it into his palm. Stuffing it under his arm protectively as though the carpet had made to swallow it up, he rights himself and then hesitates, dizzy.  Mycroft notes it, and is torn between attending to him and acknowledging an attendant, Lionel, who has perfunctorily announced a guest.  "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"Morning."  Said guest flashes a bright grin, sizing up the stray electricity in the air and how little it matches the scene.

"Gregory.  Take a seat," Mycroft has replied.

"Alex, wasn't it?  Hello," Lestrade gives a little wave and tips his chin at the slender, tweed-clad assisting friend ( _or whoever he is_ ).  The bloke turns up now and again, around Mycroft Holmes, and Lestrade would (sort of) like to know where Sherlock's art teacher fits in among the affairs of such a compelling but controlling personality.  He doubts he'd get far in finding out, seeing as even Sherlock doesn't talk about it.  Meaning _hadn't_ , when they were in more regular contact.  _Might have called more._

"Good morning, Detective Inspector.  Mr. Holmes," Alex says, and nods to them both as he makes to exit the office, tapping at his chest to check for his glasses.  (Mycroft had put them in his inner pocket for him and he'd already forgotten that, too.)  _Thank you, darling, I am quite useless today, am I not_.

"Would you care to hear this?" Mycroft says to him, presumably as a closing gambit, but it is far from clear. 

Lestrade's mouth quirks downward.

Alex clutches the folio all the harder.  It contains a jumble of odd papers, including but not limited to sketches of underclothes and buttoning shirts, jumpsuits and tunics, on reclined figures, some with their limbs bound in sashes.   His excitement over the drawings has dissipated, however.  He looks for a clearer cue from Mycroft but he has already moved on.

Lestrade starts in, "I got ten minutes.  Look.  We know who the hammer killer --"

Mycroft sighs, interrupting him straight away.  "Brian, fifteen, currently lodged at a school where he presents a terrible threat to staff and peers, which is why he is under heavy but discreet surveillance -- they are clueless as to his potential.  It must be resolved without delay, in a matter of days and not weeks."

"Yeah, and with this Tamara Jopp.  You got my texts.  Yeah, she's pretty shaken up.  Could have been far worse, as far as trying to throw us off and shut her up at the same time."  Lestrade turns his head and throws another glance Alex's way.  "Do you know?  Uh, she's a reporter, attacked by an unknown assailant, took a few blows to the shoulder and back of the head with a mallet, the night before last, in a suburb of Brighton.  Not our area but we're looking in."

"I see," Alex answers politely. 

"The blows," Mycroft seems to be reminding them both, "were not intended to cause serious harm.  You are also aware she has approached John no fewer than three times hoping for contact with Sherlock; once at home, twice at his office?" 

"So, the attacker, by her account, resembled Sherlock.  We've got a sketch of the suspect, and." 

"And you appreciate the delicacy, given -- one moment.  Mr. Nussbaum?"

Alex's brow arches.  "Yes?"

"I see you're concerned about your next appointment?"

Colour rises in Alex's cheeks.  "Right indeed," he forces out.  "It is always a pleasure, Detective Inspector.  Mr. Holmes."  He leaves without risking another glance at his lover, who has scarcely met his eyes since that knock.

Mycroft resolves to see his Alexander as early in the evening as possible.  The schedule bodes frequent annoyances for the next seven to nine hours.  

***

"Therefore, the original interpretation stands, Lexie."  

"Does it.  Well, that's a pity, I'd hoped we'd find a way around it." 

Alex's elderly solicitor snaps an elastic over the edges of a white folder and sets it in front of the artist, who smiles meekly and adds it to his folio, which he moves to zip shut. 

"So had I, for one.  One more thing," the solicitor says gently, and indicates a brown envelope on his desk, "Carly left this for you."

Alex's stomach sinks _._   "Thank you, but I'll not take it."  Abram appears to harbour hopes that the former lovers will renew something beyond their uneasy orbit.  _A father's interest_. 

"I agreed to deliver it.  You decide on the rest," the older man replies, folding his arms.  "Please."

With the illusion of choice presented thus, Alex reaches for Carly's letter, glances at the blankness on both its sides -- while considering the anonymous and generic form of it -- and stuffs it into his jacket pocket (and not among legal papers).  "I can no longer extend my friendship to Carly, directly," he remarks, pulling out a learnt phrase in order to end a topic left open for too many years.

"Not under the circumstances," Abram replies.

Alex wonders which 'circumstances' Abram has already heard of.  "He's not realised his full artistic potential in London but perhaps something will come along in the coming year, which will help him regain his focus." 

"Yes.  This time he will be working under the auspices of the AFP, if I understood correctly."  The solicitor looks across his office, in the direction of one of Carly's framed, award-winning photographs, from India.  "Of course I told him my opinion on going away again for any reason under heaven but he was determined, and what will be, will be.  He will not listen to reason.  It is harder and harder to say goodbye to that boy.  Let us instead think of some positives."

"Positives."  Saliva has rushed into Alex's mouth so quickly that he can hardly answer more.  _Gracious Mother, that was hyperbole, Carly, where have you run off to!_   He swallows it loudly and tries to breathe normally.  "Y - yes.  A few changes to come.  This coming year," Alex stammers.  "So.  It's only a question of having a bit of paper and the matter should be put to rest.  Perhaps I'll find a willing party, ha.  Shall we assume the best and slowly start looking into ways of diverting that money?"

***

Carly's note is brief.

_Hold all the good times in your heart._

_Everything was for you from the day I met you._

_Love is all that matters no matter who that love is for._

_Please forgive my mistakes._

_\--------------------------------------_

_I'm leaving to shoot the Mosul-region in Iraq + camps at Sudan border afterward.  Abram has info about rights to my work.  If push comes to shove some will belong to you/your estate/archives.  Your bf has all those papers.  Someone planted them in my room.  Gruen sd he has sth 'big' on him so I wanted to know + help you but didn't get there.  I am so sorry for everything!!!  _

_Destroy this._

Alex has read everything twice at his kitchen table, missing the hidden message completely.  He panics, shreds the paper, and fills a small saucepan with water.  He drops the scraps in, intending to boil them into a pulp; he watches from his table while the steam rises and curls, and realises he has already forgotten the wording.  He does have a clear idea of which 'someone' has 'planted' the papers for his ginger kitty, though.

He rings his best friend, hoping for a bit of background.  Or at least to ground himself.

" _Alex_ ," rumbles a sleepy Sherlock, who sounds like he is on his back.

The artist licks his lips and asks, "Where were they in the meantime?  The papers."

Sherlock replies after a brief pause and a loud sigh straight into the phone, "Hhhumm.  The newer _history_ book, of his."

 _The newer -- oh.  Oh.  Oh, no.  Carly's copy._ "Okay.  But.  Carly's gone."

 _Interesting.  Brother dear has his papers, then.  You're welcome, blood._ "Oh.  You've just heard," Sherlock concludes.

"But do you know where he is, now?" Alex asks.

"Not here, that's all that matters.  And don't tell me you care, I'm digesting."  Sherlock yawns straight into Alex's ear for effect.

"I told him off and I think he's gone and done something mad!"

"Mycroft's finally gone and done something mad?  Thought so," Sherlock seems to be arching his back, as he puffs into the receiver yet again.  "For a cause as worthy as any, I suppose:  you won't have to think about Parsons anymore.  Neither will I!  Mycroft won't, as well....  Not so mad, in the end, I perceive."

"What?  I meant Carly, that I told _him_ off at the V &A, ech, you're not listening, dear." Alex tugs at his fringe.  "He has a sudden assignment in Iraq!"

"Even you know that takes 'connexions'.  Who has that kind?  Oh right,  _I do_."

"To a French press agency, that's what my solicitor said."

"Your solicitor."  _Why were you at the solicitor's.  Who is the solicitor representing, in fact_.  _Irrelevant?_  

"Carly's biological father, it's how we even met, remember?  They both know plenty of people, dear."

"Yup.  'Needed by exactly no one:  directionless, lovelorn or merely sexually frustrated photo journalist of waning fame and an overage of testosterone'."

"Sherlock, be kind.  Listen.  Did _you_ tell Mycroft how to get those papers?"

Sherlock hiccoughs quietly as he sits up.  "Mmph.  Need I have?  He and Parsons were overdue for a chat, obviously," he says, in a tone that suggests he is wrapping up the conversation.  "Why didn't _you_ ever give the papers over to Mycroft instead of foisting them on me?  That's the only point of interest left, here.  Not that anyone is actually asking questions worth answering!" 

"This is all my fault."

"Don't be ridiculous, that's not what I meant.  But have a care, my brother does not put up with things unless they serve a long game of his.  People-things included."

"And if Carly gets hurt over there, _what will I do then_?" Alex moans.

"You'll say, 'oh, thank the Holy Whatnots he's alive'."

"Sherlock, please.  Well.  It will not come to that, it can't.  So."

"So?"

"It just can't."  Alex groans and rubs his nose.  The water is boiling like mad on his cooker.  "I'd really wanted to see you."

"And?"

"I still do -- but can it be later than we'd planned?  I don't want to put out any of the drivers just now."

"Come down with Roman Wilk.  He'll be in these parts just after Boxing Day, unless something keeps him in Poland longer.  For instance, illness...mm."

"Not for the night this time."

"...Why does that smack of embarrassment over your new breathing device?"

"Sherlock."

" _Any_ sound in this house is preferable to your corpse-resurrecting snoring."

A breathy, mildly-offended radio-worthy huff follows:  " _Reeeeally_."

"Any."

"Testament to your officer's fortitude," Alex replies, and cracks a smile in spite of all the tension in his chest.

"Shut _up_."

"Oh!  I have an incoming call, dear, sorry, it's on the N-line."

"Soooo sorry, you'll just have to take it," Sherlock snips.

Alex speeds up, "Greet John from me!  You know, he's planning a little something for you!"

"Oh?  Mm."  _Bored.  Bored!  Borrrrrred.  John..._ _  
_

"See if you can deduce it when he gets home!  Bye, now!" 

Alex does not have anything particular in mind when saying this, aside from a birthday present in early January.  But he does like to imagine his friends happily shagging over nothing.  Freely.


	32. The more factors involved

There is a gale strong enough to rattle panes, and John's shoulder aches insistently. He has quit looking for activities.  He's got through Christmas, though.  _They_ have got through it.  He is tired of his job, a trickle of local personalities with agues and prescription requests, the nurses whose voices switch up to sing-song politeness (or is it his imagination) just when he walks into a room.  Because he does not always fit.  _Should be grateful, fuck's sake, stop this._   They will have their only willing house guest ( _good thing_ ) in a matter of hours, and the place looks fairly clean, the bed sheets are changed; the bathtub reeks of Detol.  And Sherlock has ordered in a few delicacies to round out their fridge staples. 

John rubs his back against his armchair cushion.  As he stares into the lapping of the low flames in the fireplace, he exhales quietly -- and it is not just for the malaise neck up or neck down.  _Fucking paranoid, thinking in circles.  Happens, when you don't have enough -- never mind.  "We will have a chance to speak, John, won't we, there's something I must run by you."_   _You'd know what I need to hear, I guess._ Sherlock is tapping away behind, on his laptop, at the kitchen table.  He is writing a paper, most likely on his latest kick, the analysis of unique mineral traces in water stains -- _silk, synthetic satins, and modal, toward three environmental reconstructions.  Should paint that ceiling stain over, now that it's served its term as inspiration.  Jesus, fucking shoulder, fuck you._

"Soldier," Sherlock breaks in, fortunately, "Eliminate, remove...?"

"Obliterate," John says, smiling at the fire.

"Nope."

"You're the encyclopaedic one."

"Not at present."  _Boring_.  Today, a better plan -- for seduction -- has been taking shape in Sherlock's head.  The notion of _audience_ loops pleasantly through his head while he sips down a warm mug of green tea.  Plans suggest themselves.  A pity, he thinks, that his friend has such perverse taste.  _Clothing excepted._   He is horny -- that much is happening.  _Plans are made to be broken, isn't that how the saying goes?_   "John."

John turns in his chair.  "Uhm.  Eradicate?"

"If you so wish.  Doubt you do, though," Sherlock smiles and blinks.  And stares.

 _Hah.  Gorgeous._ "Which will it be, me coming over there, or you're going to come over here, right now."

Sherlock shrugs.  "No preference.  Outcome of greater interest."

"Then come here, beautiful, it's warm."

"Counting on it."

"Yeah?"

Sherlock is a blur of dressing gown, legs and arms, head already buried near John's lap as he flops to his knees in front of the chair.  "Yeah," he says, softly, though his long hands are not soft against John's thighs. They are already creeping up to his officer's sides and end with a grip, at the top of John's jeans.  "Off."

"Yeah.  Hell, yeah."  John complies.  He pulls them down to the knees.  His chest heaves -- but this is going to be good breathing, and he can't help laughing a little to himself.  (He'd been so bloody tense.)

Sherlock is stroking John, deftly, through his too-faded pants, which are rough from emergency-drip-drying at the hearth the day before (Sherlock resolves to bin them -- an idea soon forgotten in his pleasure at finding a first, warm drop of pre-come on their fronts).  He grins, and presses a thumb right over John's cock head, letting that piled cotton pull the fabric along, a movement which can't be satisfying in the least but is enough to get John to open his legs.  Properly.

"Off, and do it better this time," Sherlock tells him, giving the nasty things a tug so that John lifts his hips and leans into the back of his chair.  "Good."

"Gonna be, ohh -- God, good," John looks down at the perfect turn of events that is in his lap, as Sherlock lowers his messy, pretty head and takes him full in his hot, soft mouth.

John's hands find plenty to grasp onto, and he tries not to push his man down but enjoy the movement, stroke by stroke, by lick, by suck.  _Ffffuck yes.  Fuck._ "Fuck, love you."

 “Mmhmm."  The vibrations from the back of Sherlock's throat tickle, and the pressure buzzes through John's shaft.

He is breathing loud, staring up at the ceiling, when Sherlock pauses, and adds two of his fingers in between those perfect, swollen lips.  It feels bizarre at first and then he gets the point.  Sherlock removes them again with a pop; John lifts his arse and holds his thigh up.  Sherlock wastes no time and drives a finger straight into him. 

"Fuck, love.  G - hmm, God." 

The mouthwork is relentless, too, and the rhythm overtakes the initial discomfort and frustration of friction so readily that the first lurch in John's balls hits faster than usual -- and when he notices Sherlock's other hand squeezed tightly over himself, near the floor, he grits his teeth, and the edge -- skids up to him, somehow, and he has a very sudden orgasm -- in less than four minutes of action, if he'd thought to ask for stats.  He has spots in front of his eyes, partly from the fire and the rest from having his mind blown through his cock.

Sherlock is left hard, and his hands are trembling.  He is willing to wait for a turn, as painful a prospect as that is at the moment.   _So may it be a long turn_. 

"Christ, that was -- that -- I'm going to need to change.  Shower.  When's he -- "

"Oh, him.  Mm.  Half hour at the most."

"Wh - at!"

"Change of plans."

"I'll say.  And you were planning to tell me...when?  When I was on top of you and the door bell rang?" John grumbles, standing up from his chair, and clawing for his jeans-legs.

"As good a time as any."

"Sherlock."

***

And arrive he does, blown in by that awful wind, his travel bag carried by the solemn Roman Wilk, who presses a yellow plastic  _Netto_ shopping bag into John's hands and mumbles, "Christmas wishes for health and good next year, lots of money."

"Oh?"  John has a look:  he finds dark rye bread.  The bottle of something home-made and high-proof is welcome, too.  "Uff, wow.  These are for us?  Thanks, a lot.  Great.  All the best to you, too.  Appreciate this, thanks.  Road all right?" 

"I'm good driver, no problem."  The Pole nods at Sherlock; there seems to be a quick exchange of hand signals behind Alex's back. 

"How's London?" John asks Alex distractingly; his arms are tingling enough that he starts flexing his fingers. 

"London.  I've no idea, dear.  Mycroft and I don't get out much," Alex sighs.  "He can't often spare an evening."  

"No surprise, he could spare the entire world but never has," Sherlock grunts, and mutters something about honey buckets.  "Roman."  He herds Wilk back out the front door, and the metallic _ping, snick-clap_ of a Zippo lighter is audible on the front porch.

John glances over the doorway.  He coughs to himself at the unwanted thought of cigarette smoke.  "Guess they've had the holiday phone call?"

"Oh.  Yes, they did," the artist replies.  "That is also the fastest way I know to remove Sherlock from a room," he remarks.  "May I sit down?"

"Uhm.  Maybe -- on the sofa."

"Thank you," Alex sighs a second time, crossing the room and perching on one end of the sofa, legs crossed at the thigh.  "Come for a moment.  Lovely to see you, by the way."

John plops down with his hands clasped between his knees.  "Same here.  What's happening."

"Oh, plenty.  When I spoke to Frederick, about Sherlock's birthday present --"

"Yeah.  Can he fit it in?  Should've got on that a lot earlier."

"He will, though it may be a day or two late.  And you'll never believe, he said someone wants to produce some of what we've made together!  So we chose a few."

"You mean, clothes?  Designs?"

"Mhmm, one of them being Sherlock's tie-back blouse."

"Yeah?  Good.  Uhm.  Got any pictures of the other ones?" John wets his lip.

"A few drawings, but at home.  The ones that they really liked are the loose boxers, with an open seam in back.  For those who love a frot in silk, and who doesn't, actually, so sort of a crossover design, tied closed just behind your right hip."

"Uhm."

"A bit tricky to put on, but worth it, oh my God."

John gulps.  He's been out of the city for too long, he decides.  "Don't doubt it."

"They'd be perfect with that blouse or another as a set, I was suggesting they should be treated modularly, like a capsule wardrobe for bed, a nice hint as well about what you'd like once you're there."

John is pretty certain by now that his ears have gone pink.  And that Mycroft has chosen himself a skilled distracter -- _no after-hours hobby needed_.  "Yeah.  Would be.  Sure." 

"Anyhow, I was just talking to my solicitor about licensing, rights, and so forth."

"Heh.  Looking forward to --"

"Me too." Alex winks. 

 _Damn it_.  "What else is new."

(Roman's car is heard to start up and drive off.  Sherlock seems to have chosen to walk around to the back of the house, most likely to finish a 'low tar' cigarette, as if Roman would even touch one, thinks John.)

"Sorry?" Alex is asking, apparently distracted by his own musings.

"How are things.  Uhm."

"Well.  At my solicitor's I also heard once and for all that -- I'll need to marry for money."

"Wait.  But you're rich," John says, before he can bite it off his tongue.  "Who's the heir, though?"

"I would be.  Well, it was supposed to have gone to my brother as the eldest.  There's an exclusionary clause, though.  A bit complicated, but the idea was to have a line of successors."

"Meaning what.  You'll need a successor?" 

"No, that's what I originally thought.  But, no.  Marriage is marriage, according to the newest interpretation my solicitor has, so that's helpful.  Sort of."

"Hm.  Does Mycroft know about this will?"

"No.  Well, it's kept in a vault, in Cape Town, and a copy is among my solicitor's files.  So, Mycroft is likely to be better acquainted with it than I am," Alex laughs self-deprecatingly.

"You're telling me this, because?"

"I'm sorry."

"Not saying it's wrong, just."

"Who else would ever understand, John."

John bites the inside of his cheek.  "Tell him what you told me.  Not like _he_ won't understand."

"I wouldn't know where to start."  Alex has no idea what to say next, but _hearing 'no' would smash me to bits_ would be the most truthful thing.

"Hm."

"All the sleep testing has dredged some old things up, and I wanted closure in at least one area.  I was actually thinking I'd use it for schools somewhere they've lost theirs to war, there are -- there are just so many locations to choose from, the need is enormous, and meanwhile, my daft problems.  Like 'closure'."  That has brought up tears.  Alex shrugs his thin shoulders, but it has nothing in common with the varieties John gets to see from Sherlock. 

"Taking all your meds?"

"Probably."

"Look, uhm.  Need to tap a kidney.  We're not done."  John pokes a finger in the air just in front of Alex's chest.

"No, we're certainly not.  Go."

John comes out with wet hands, which he wipes all over his jeans on the way to the kitchen. He switches on the kettle, huffs, and coughs before re-approaching Alex with a sniff. He starts back in:  "I'm saying this once.  Don't let things slide.  You don't like the pills and shit side effects?  Never have?  You don't have to.  You don't have to like the bloody C-PAP.  You have to like _life_ , and everything else falls in line.  Are you getting this?"

"Yes, John." 

"Talk about this will, as soon as possible.  Get it out, because _they_ don't.  I've done this one, remember?  France?  Yeah.  It just piles up and they dig in even more."

"You're very right.  Yes.  The more 'factors' involved, the worse."

"Hm.  Noticed that, eh."

"On that topic.  There's something I must tell you.  I have long thought you should have heard it first." Alex seems to be listening for Sherlock's return.

John presses his teeth together.  "Right."  _Great._

"Mycroft only told me because I was angry at his continued insistence on controlling Sherlock's activities, and that he was under so much surveillance to begin with," Alex says quickly.  "I didn't understand."

"Understand what.  He told you what happened?  That Christmas?"  John asks, though even his knees are now itching from the spike of adrenaline.  _Well, shit._

"No, what followed." 

"So talk."

"Come here."  Alex leans in close to John's not-entirely-eager head, and lowers his voice,  "A memory chip from one of the surveillance cameras at Appledore has been missing since the night of Charles Magnussen's death."

"Hhh.  God.  Great.  Just perfect.  Just _great_.  And?" 

Alex continues calmly, "Mycroft has three of the four, on the basis of which he and Sir Edwin prepared an official version, showing Sherlock as provocateur and not perpetrator.  Because _he did it_."

"Uhm."  John takes a long, hissing breath in.  Holds it.  "Fffff," he blows out.  "Yeah."

"You must know that what has happened to Sherlock and his career, to Mycroft's career -- I mean a certain stalemate, is largely because of that missing chip.  Your life, and mine, as a matter of course, are affected."

" _Damn_ it.  And so why shouldn't I know about it.  Because I'll -- _what_."

"Mycroft didn't want anyone else involved." 

"Why not.  Great idea, that.  So much _shit_.  We live with."

"I know, dear, I do understand."

"Guess you do.  Actually," John says, stabbing his index finger into the sofa cushion between them, "I'd be willing to bet he's holding back on you, because of that."

Alex looks taken aback by that suggestion.  "No. No, no. But Mycroft does not have full leverage, and now it may get worse."

"How.  Much.  Worse.  Where is this thing.  You know where it is?"

 _Possibly.  Gracious Mother._ "Well.  The committee -- I wonder if it's related, you see.  Something's happening."

"But you know where it is?  Any leads?  Anything."

"I'm sorry, not at this stage," Alex says.

John's head starts rolling over what _stages_ could possibly come next, that would make a difference.  He breathes in, a whistling in his now-damp nose.  _Fuck, don't lose it_.

"John.  One of the members plans to resign, I think, and moreover, he has been working for a very influential mogul named Gruen."

"Gruen.  Right." 

"Mycroft seems to have been tolerating all of it -- perhaps biding his time on it -- but I am convinced this Gruen also stands behind the disaster that was the Vienna mission -- remember, when we met in Vienna, at the _Leopold_?  And Sherlock went missing?  This was most probably the one manipulating housing legislation all over Europe to the benefit of an international underworld.  He has his fingers everywhere in political, financial, technological and even military circles.  Recently, I met them for a chat -- the committee member in question, and this Mr. Gruen.  I was appalled at their audacity and lack of respect for Mycroft and others in the committee, in spite of everything."

"Mycroft sent you to do that?"

"Never.  They approached _me_ quite circumspectly." 

 _That photographer helped them out.  Great._   "Through your friend, your ex?  Might want to stay away."

Alex nods.  "He's abroad.  Anyhow, Gruen's got fingers everywhere. He is behind multiple disruptions to _our_ intelligence communities at so many levels, you'd not believe it.  Mainly in the Middle East, but has functioned in the Baltic States and Balkans.  His subsidiaries do awful things in parliaments, online communities, and borderlands, and even warzones."

"Fuck."  _Wait one fucking minute.  Lithuania, that fucker in Vilnius._ "Like Vilnius?  You've got to know about that _._ "

Alex glances at him (confirmation enough, to John's mind), and continues, "He provides 'services'.  He has no allegiances to anyone.  He works the most vulnerable links in diplomacy, and borderlands."

"Yeah."  John brushes at his thighs.  "Hmm."

"But," Alex says, "as it happens, my kitty does, too."

"So.   _Mycroft_ knows about all that.  _You_ know about all that."

"I know very little.  Ha ha.  But then, what is the sense in knowing things when you can't help." Alex clasps his hands tightly in agitation, eyes reddening.  

"Hey.  Take it easy.  Which one, in the committee?  That Edwin sod?"

"The Culver sod.  You see, what if _they_ have the chip, John?"

"Whoa.  Yeah." 

"It hit me recently that you really -- really -- need to know about this.  I worry about this whole connection between Sherlock and -- I don't know if I ought to have shown him the documents they were sending to me, I probably should not have.  I even wonder if they expected me to?  I have a lot of doubts right now about who I am in all of this."

"I see where you're going.  Hmm." 

"Sherlock has been solving cases, hasn't he."

"Yeah, here and there, maybe."

"John, it weakens Mycroft's arguments with them if Sherlock does not comply.  I told you before, they keep Sherlock out of prison because of a few mutually upheld gentlemen's agreements and little more."

"Yeah."

"I think Gruen literally pays for evidence on Mycroft, and other people, all the time.  Robert may have pointed Gruen in Mycroft's direction to begin with, maybe even in mine.  I don't know."

"They know you're together, that's the point?"

"No, I don't think they do.  Which is making this even more bizarre."

"Assume they know," John replies, shaking his head.  "It doesn't add up."

"If they have that chip, they could push Mycroft and possibly others in the committee into a corner.  Why not create a power vacuum, even a temporary one.  Or show a cover-up --"  Alex pauses and looks searchingly at John.  "-- And question other things they've done.  Opening a large wound at the heart of our government, introducing chaos to the top advisors, making them lose trust in one another's moral absolutes and motives in the long term."

"God."  John folds his arms over his chest and presses them down, hard.

"I mean, that's what I'd do."  Alex's lips twitch up, though it is more grimace than smile.  "And don't be angry at Mycroft and Sherlock.  They believed they'd find that chip quickly."

"Yeah."  _Sherlock...seriously, you couldn't just bloody say all of it._ "So, we take it as it comes.  That's what we do."

"Quite right."

"Uhm.  Look.  You're not going after that thing are you?"

Sherlock has just pulled open the back door.  Alex shakes his head and rubs the bridge of his nose.

John looks away as Sherlock enters, kicks off his shoes and asks, "Who was boiling the water."

"I was, dear," Alex says.  "Would --"

"Because you equate being useful with --"

"Shhhut --" John slices into that deduction, or observation, or whatever was about to be voiced.  His eyes are wide enough in warning that his phoenix saunters, effectively silenced, into the living room; Sherlock will receive a kiss to the forehead in thanks for that, along with a cup of tea he'd not expressly wanted.  Also thanks, for being himself. 

_For the secrets that are probably supposed to be protections.  Yeah, even those.  Jesus, Sherlock._

John is not irritated, much.  And he is not hurt, really.  In fact, he looks over at the artist again and feels relieved:  there is an actual explanation.  _A fucking microchip._

He feels surprisingly ready, and for any form it chooses to hit them with.  Should it.


	33. All too revealing

Once evening falls, or at least the feeling of it -- as it is completely dark so early -- Alex closes himself in the bedroom, unpacks his phone and codes in for an N-line.  He then waits through the silence, and clicking, while a storm in his brain and the clicking behind his ribs push at him.

Mycroft picks up with "I cannot talk now.  What is it."

"Only good night.  May I have a word, for later, darling?"

"'Oxford'."

"If you were here, now, would you kiss my eyes...?"

"I expect so."

 _Does he know?_ "Stay well, ginger kitty.  You are in all my favourite thoughts, too, always, always."

"Understood."

"Oh, and I got my pocket square back!  At last.  So.  Good night, lovely."

The line clicks off. 

 _'That might be why he is holding off on you'.  Over a microchip and a political arrangement, no.  No, never._ Alex reaches for the case with his CPAP mask, and glances about for a socket. 

His phone buzzes; he is surprised to see a text from Mycroft:

 

                _Greenhouse please, in 3 minutes._

 

 _Could he know by now?_ Alex paces a bit and puts his ear to the door.  Things might be a touch awkward, given what he can hear of events on the sofa, but with a deep breath of his own and plenty of curiosity pushing him forward, he finally leaves John and Sherlock's bedroom, turns quickly in the direction of the kitchen and slips his bare feet into a pair of black house slippers Sherlock keeps at the threshold of the _orangerie_.  The rain is noisiest out there, too much so to hear a call in whispers, if that is the plan.  The rain and wind have hardly let up.  _Mercy_.  Not certain how much time has gone by, he stands in the middle of the greenhouse, mobile in his fingers, and waits, nape prickling.  _Hold me off?  What on earth for._

He does not see the graphite grey camera drone when it briefly hovers about five yards out from the glass (it is one of the most advanced in terms of weather resistance to date -- three patrol the cliffs most prone to illegal docking); then again, no one is supposed to detect it. 

When Alex's phone vibrates against his palm he almost drops it.

               

_Ever exceeding the mind's eye._

 

"Oh...." Alex peers in confusion out at the dark blur of the fields surrounding the house.  "Well, hello, darling," he whispers.

"Hell - o, comrade," Sherlock rasps from the doorway.

"Ha," Alex answers, with a jump and shiver.  "By the way, it's awfully cold out here."

"Thank you for weighing in, it being winter."

Alex nods in the direction of the living room.  "And why are you cooling yourself down?"

Sherlock ignores that and raises his brows.  "Where is the camera."

"What?  Shall I make something more for us to drink -- what is the matter with you?" Alex gulps.

"Just curiosity." Sherlock sidles closer.

Alex has seen this move before.  He steps back and almost loses a slipper in the process.  This scenario would look ambiguous, particularly from behind -- outdoors -- and that seems to be the point.  Alex frowns; it appears Sherlock hopes to extract the truth, or at least make a scene trying.  "Ha.  Even so, can you _not_."  (Sherlock's hair is ruffled, pawed at after proudly spending a half hour or so with John on the sofa, kissing and talking.  The glittery keenness in his eyes is not directed at him but it is still rather hard to look at.)  _Stop it, don't._

"My brother's camera.  Where is it." 

"I know of no camera."

"Even so, where is it.  You're here for a reason."

"And you aren't.  Why have you left your officer?"

"Loo," Sherlock says, suddenly lowering his gaze to the artist's lips.  "You're better when you don't play games."

"So are you, brother."  Alex shakes his head in disbelief.  "I told you, I know of _no camera_."

"Good.  Because if someone were looking...."

"Right.  So do not provoke your husband, who is standing right over there in the living room!" Alex hisses. 

That seems to have got through.  Sherlock shuts down the charm.  "What did you tell John, about me.  Earlier on."

"Sherlock, go to him."

"He's different.  _Tell me_."

"Commercial production of pants!  House clothes."

"You warned him about something, I know the signs."

"I'm worried that you'll be arrested."

"And I'm not.  Funny, that."

"Oh, your flippancy, honestly."

"Your apparent discomfort, honestly."

John has the top button undone on his jeans and is humming to himself at the kitchen sink; his curiosity has got the better of him, too.  _What is this._   "All good?" he asks, craning to see them both better, while pouring some tepid water from the kettle into a glass for himself.

"No, not especially," Alex says over Sherlock's left shoulder, "Sherlock is worried there's a camera, but I assure you, I do not know of any new camera here, John."

"Let it go, love," John says, sipping and eyeing them carefully as they join him in the middle of the kitchen.  "He came here to rest, give him a rest.  What."

 _Soldier!_ Whatever this new accord between John and Alex is made of, Sherlock would love to know _every blasted thing about it_.

"Mm.  The case of the silken _pants_ ," Sherlock mutters.  "The game is on."

"Yup," John confirms.  "If it means you're getting some pants, sure."

"I'll see to it that he has them in every colour, John," Alex smiles.  It feels good to have a reason to.

"Good."  John nods at him.

"Of course." 

"Wouldn't mind a preview."

"Ha!  What sort?" Alex laughs and puts his hand on his hip.  "Mmm?"   

"Uh, no, just.  Saying."  John looks a bit embarrassed but not enough to be repentant.  "I'm just wondering.  How they -- tie.  Stay tied, I guess."

Sherlock stares into the space separating John and Alex.

"That I can't show you," Alex says.

"Nah, right."

Sherlock flicks his widened eyes between Alex and John, mouth in a shocked, but slack "O".  The erotic bravado he'd acted out moments before, for another end, has vanished.

"Because I...only have my own, and I wouldn't make for a proper model," the artist explains, though he is happy about being (almost, almost) asked.

"Hm."

"John?" Sherlock breaks in, suddenly convinced they must have arranged _this_ particular scene, just for him.

"Yeah?"

"We were, as we were," Sherlock tips his chin toward the living room.

"We were.  Yeah.  Alex, you want something to drink?"

"Actually, a cuppa if you don't mind.  Of course I'll take it in the bedroom."

"Yes," Sherlock breaks in again.

"Nah," John remarks, "warm up a little.  I'll put in another log."

Sherlock does not want to wait for the tea to be swallowed down, lingeringly, at the fire.  Soon, he is stretched out on his side, next to John, an arm around John's waist to anchor himself at the very edge of the sofa; he keeps his back to Alex and the rest of the warm room.  John is kissing his face so gently it makes no noise at all; he takes John's hand and guides it over his erection.  The first strokes are also taken in silence, but soon his breathing betrays pleasure, and he lets himself rock more and more freely into John's palm, opening his mouth for John's tongue; for a moment, he thinks he would love to know what is happening behind him. 

John gets a glimpse or two.  

***

_There is something keeping me up, book, and it's certainly not them.  I don't lie to you, volume, so why should I have lied to a living person?  Furthermore, to the Lady?  So I did not._

_Gracious Mother.  I expect kitty will deduce things quite soon, so why not simply acknowledge it for posterity?  It all happened after Lady Smallwood asked me to tell Sir Edwin and kitty that she'd got in, for their last meeting of the year.  It went like this:  "Tell them I've arrived, I'll be in straight away."  (I said I would do.  Then she stood aside and I went in ahead of her.)  "Mr. H," I said to kitty, "a moment of your time, please.  I beg your pardon [Sir Edwin]."  Watching M's reaction required a stretch of acting and I was not up for it, honestly.  He said, "Not of interest."  He wouldn't listen to anything I tried to say.  "Mr. Nussbaum, did you not hear?  Your appreciation of protocol appears to have taken a hit."  "Not important, or it would not have been sent through you," Edwin added (explanatory tone).  Then kitty said (to him), "As regards staffing, your point earlier on.  Channels, or you have chaos from all sides.  Lyon, 2014."  "Rio.  Date unmentionable."  I know it was for show but it was not kind.  "I am announcing Lady Smallwood," I said.  "I insist on your polite regard for the Lady, she's just arrived."  M pursed his lips, and nodded at me.  The door opened (she'd got impatient?).  "By all means," he said, looking over at her.  She'd taken off her coat and was all in cobalt blue, very pretty, assessing all three of us with interest.  Now I see why:  curious/suspicious.  "Good afternoon, Elizabeth," M said.  I wanted to leave but I was so hot around the eyes I could hardly see where I was going.  "What is the matter with that secretary?" she asked M just behind my back, and he said, "No idea."  She gave him some papers clipped in a yellow folder and said, "Not Zagreb.  Nearly 80 miles from there."  "Ah.  Can this wait until dinner?"  "Certainly," she said.  And she literally came after me.  Believe me, dear volume, I did not want to talk, to anyone.  And she walked up while I was putting on my scarf and coat and said, "Wait.  May I have a word?"  "I'll gladly meet you another day.  Now, you'll excuse me."  "I find it curious," she replied, "that anyone would still mistake you for a secretary."  I don't, book, but that is a story for someone else to write, on less elegant paper.  "I beg your pardon, Madame," I told her, and tried to leave.  No such luck.  "I've seen your file, Sir Alexander," she said.  That could mean dozens of things from any one of multiple files which are 'mine', so the conundrum is, which is our thick Lexie Bertie to be?  The who and the how are enough, and that before a chap gets out of bed.  "What it says is...impressive."  The Lady's face was misaligned with her words.  "But who are you, really?"  "I cannot readily tell you.  Madame, it is always a pleasure," I told her.  "I agree," she said.  And we went back and forth, round and round, she kept me there, and finally I decided -- enough.  "There's something you should know."  Truth, however painful to us all, can only stop all this, or reset the course.  She said right back, "And you think I need to hear it, should it even be true?"  "Yes," I said, Gracious Mother.  Onward.  "My motives are more easily understood when bearing in mind -- that M -- is --"  "Is?"  And I said it!  "My partner."  "In what?"  "That is, he is my lover."  "Ah.  So.  I see."  And I said something to the effect of "I am sorry if this news brings you any discomfort or runs counter to certain expectations you have had about his cares."  I don't recall the exact wording, I was in a bit of a panic.  "Well.  Is that a reliable indicator?  Another's expectations?" she asked.  "No," I said, "and you know best that it is not.  And that it may be greatly exceeded.  Look who you have surpassed by miles."  "Yes, that's part of what we'll call 'another story'."  And I told her a couple more little things, and that "I believe strongly that we would understand one another."  She's been hurt by some of them, I think.  She's very touchy.  "Would we!"  I said that yes, we would:  "We are natural allies, Lady Smallwood." "Time will tell what you really are."  "Thank you.  I must tell you something else.  Do with this what you will."  "Which goes without saying."  I tried to warn her and said, "I'm afraid there is an oncoming split in the security committee."  "Yes, and I mentioned it to M some time ago."  I was so shocked -- they know about it?  I was thinking it was a bluff on her side, but it was not.  "So then, you know the nature of this possible split?  And who stands to be weakened by it?" I asked.  She laughed a little, "That is changing, dynamically.  You would like to stop it, I suppose?  What could you have to say about threats to Mr. H that he does not already know?"  That made me a bit angry.  "Plenty, like you.  Don't tell me Gruen has never approached you, in confidence.  He has!"  She couldn't deny it, imagine, book.  He's been after her, too.  "Either way, you should not speak of him, here."  "And he supplied you with a trickle of very good information, and you've waited to see what it all means?  In hopes of getting more?  That's his way, it's how he starts a purchasing process," I told her.  She said, in her way, "An interesting take, I'll grant you that."  I admitted that Robert Culver has approached me with regard to support for initiatives which are not in the interest of the security committee, in the least, and acted as mediator for a preliminary meeting with Herman Gruen.  "And why do you suppose Robert approached you?" she asked, like it was the most ridiculous thing.  "That isn't clear to me," I told her.  "Isn't it?" she asked.  "They appear to think I am a successor to Mr. H, or at least to Mr. Culver."  "A rumour we have all heard.  There are plenty of others of equal plausibility," she answered, and that was that.  "I wouldn't know.  It is not my milieu, Madame," I told her.  Of course, she said, "And what is your 'milieu'?"  "Certainly not pulling bricks out of a bastion, nor watching someone else at it, to damage M's position.  I've no need to join the committee, either."  "Though you will join it?  I've little doubt, now."  "If only because the next attack on M will probably concern S."  "Perhaps it will be about you, Sir Alexander."  "That would be pathetic, but we cannot rule that out.  You are a central part of that crucial incident for which Sherlock is under close surveillance and no small scrutiny, and you know best how delicate it is, from all sides."  That got her.  It was worth it all.  "What could you know about 'all sides'."  The lady did not like it.  I said, "That S took the case of that contemptible media mogul -- on your behalf, and took it too far?"  She replied, "Advised me, with regard to my husband.  It was for naught.  May we also clarify that nothing more was done 'on my behalf'.  The sniper did not act on anyone's command, as far as we are aware."  I took my chance:  "I wonder if he was punished?"  And the Lady shook her head that 'no', and there was a little gleam in her eyes, of 'fortunately'.  She said, "Deemed accidental, through and through.  Case closed."_

_She believes the sniper killed the media mogul, Magnussen.  Why?  A man was killed, in front of J, and my kitty, with a gun, and who has a gun in the ready?  That he might take along to a confrontation?  Oh, Lord.  And why would kitty have been there, except to stop it?  And even he couldn't.  Dear, dear ginger kitty.  See!  This is what happens when we lie!  It cannot end well.  It will not.  "Deemed so," I said.  The lady suddenly seemed offended again:  "Are you alluding to an error on the part of the investigators?  Say it."  "I had no other allusion in mind.  I know next to nothing about it.  Elizabeth, please.  He will need your support, more than ever.  Please."  "Why haven't you warned him?" she asked.  "The same reason you haven't.  Disbelief, hoping for a bit more certainty, a move or signal.  Also, S is waiting for a particular move, that's why I haven't done much, in fact."  "Did you go to him with this?"  "Yes.  I think you would, too.  I would like to meet you again, when we can talk.  But I really need to go."  So she let me go._

_OMG. And so I've told J about the chip/HG/Robert, too, and S seems well on his way to figuring it all out._


	34. A confrontation of facts

_"The Commissioner claims cuts may be to blame for overwork and loss of tempo, while a surge in violent crimes in smaller communities shows an unparalleled need for cooperation and shared vigilance, in a statement given moments ago.  'We will give considerable attention and exhaustive effort to explain how policing can respond to new pressures.  We are currently making every conceivable effort, let me emphasize, no effort will be spared to see that those involved in this unprecedented series of events which have misled public opinion and shaken trust in the police, are brought to justice, the causes thoroughly explained, and we intend to see that those affected emerge reassured that we stand in_ _defence_ _of all citizens, that none are above the word of the law...'"_

_"My sources say with a high degree of certainty, reliability that is, that retired detective Sherlock Holmes was closely involved in the investigation in recent weeks.  Can you confirm for us the involvement or non-involvement of Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"At this time I am unable to confirm any role played by Sherlock Holmes.  Yes, please.  In the back, with the blue --"_

"Fuck them."  John sniffs and clears his throat.  He stands over the telly as if ready to punch the scene off the screen.  "Fuck them to tomorrow."

"John."

"So.  They know, I guess.  What happens now?"

"Time to spend some time in London, I believe."

"Listen, we're not going _anywhere_."

"We aren't.  I am."

"Nope."

"John, not a word.  It's 'protocol'."

"Sherlock."  Alex's warnings are pounding through John's head.  _If he does not comply --_

Sherlock worries a pretty lip between his teeth.  "Have a chair."

"No, you're going to get him up," John mumbles, waving toward their bedroom.

"He came to rest, said you, so, let him rest."

"Fuck's _sake_ , take this more seriously," John hisses, noting that his hands are tingling.  He marches to the bedroom door, gives it a hard knock, and goes right inside.  The artist is propped up on two pillows, one hand on his stomach, another thrown out, palm up.  John leans over him and sets a hand on his shoulder, giving it a single, firm shake.  "Hey," he says, "uhm, Alex.  Wake up.  Wake.  _Up_.  Come on."

Alex's eyes open -- he looks startled, and pulls his mask off as though he'd just finished demonstrating its use.

"You awake?  We need to talk," John tells him.

Alex nods and looks John up and down, noting the tension in his arms, chest, face.  "I.  I fully understand, we may have gone too far in indulging him?"

"No, not.  No.  I'm good."

"Oh!  Right." 

"He's -- good, too.  You?"

"Perfectly all right."

"Uhm.  Just.  The case of the hammer murders and the son of the -- you know.  It's all over the telly this morning.  They know it was that superintendent's kid.  And there were seven officers who knew."

"Mycroft said he was to be removed immediately."

"Who!"

"The child.  To a proper facility for treatment."

"Facility, yeah.  They've got those.  I need you up.  Get dressed."

"I will do.  So, don't tell me they've come for Sherlock?"

"No, they're planning to?"

"I should hope not, but with Robert -- you know what I mean to say."

"Yeah, just get up."

"I will do!"

"So?"

"I've not a stitch on, from waist down."

John grins and looks away.  "Right.  Be quick."

"I would like that," Alex sighs, and slides from under the bedclothes so that he is facing the far wall.  "You are of no help to a lad."

John is mildly offended until he realises Alex is addressing a stubborn case of morning wood, and not him; both men burst out in snickers and John's ears burn, even if for a very short time.  "On your own this time," he mutters, and they both laugh again, louder than before.

The merriment has not gone unheard by Sherlock, who still questions the nature of John's and Alex's 'secret', even while replaying a short clip in his mind of his husband's kisses and quick handwork, the grip of his warm palm and the pad at the base of the thumb, tightening over his cockhead, his own back turned to the fire, to his friend, _who had not minded and would not mind even_ \--

He listens again.  He'd nearly been distracted from a more interesting thing, or series of them:  a large car has pulled up to the front drive.  The engine is cut.  A door opens.  One set of footsteps are heard to approach; they are those of a heavy man, meaning an "Anthony" -- or perhaps another government-issue meathead. 

John is out of the bedroom in time to shoot an anxious look his way at the sound of the second, or perhaps third knock on the door.  "Uh, getting that?  He's getting dressed."  

Sherlock shrugs.  "They know how to open it, I expect.  Getting dressed, you say?"

"They!  Fuck --"

Alex emerges, buttoning himself into a white shirt at the chest, in time to see a guard step in.  His eyes widen.  John turns to him, wetting his lips nervously.  "Just busted on in," he mutters.  "For a pot of tea."

"Ah, I see," Alex says, pushing aside his fringe.  "One moment."  He backs into the bedroom, retrieves his pocketbook, and grabs his most impactful vetted access card, in the absence of a better idea. Returning with a more official air, he says firmly, "Anthony."

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you not announce yourself?"  Alex asks, and flashes his card at the man.

"Oh-ho-hmmm," Sherlock purrs to himself.  John glares his way.  _Stop_.

"I understand you are providing armed escort for this witness?"

"Correct, sir."

"And for myself, to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, at twelve thirty, in his offices at Vauxhall Cross," the artist adds.

"Sir, requesting confirmation," the gentleman says, but this time straight into his right cufflink. 

Sherlock's mouth quivers at the corners;a countable number of footsteps are followed by a single knock; Mycroft enters the house. 

"You have yet to be invited, and here you are, again.  Mycroft.  Dust off your faculties of prescience," Sherlock mutters.

"Shut _up_ ," John hisses.

Mycroft blows that off like so much dust in the room and turns to Alex.  They lock eyes for several seconds. 

"A purposeless stunt," the elder Holmes summarises.

"Yes, which is why I wanted to intervene," Alex replies.  

Neither as much as blinks, which makes at least one observer's stomach turn a little.  _Uff, holy fuck._ John isn't certain what to watch for right now, so he settles on looking at Sherlock's profile, and hopes he has a grasp of what is going down, because _he_ definitely does not, and this near-instant crack opening between Alex and Mycroft is bloody unpleasant.

"Do not interfere."

"I truly didn't want this to happen."

"Did anyone?" John feels he needs to interject.

Mycroft raises a brow.  "Some may have or they'd have acted otherwise," he says ambiguously, and glares at Sherlock.  "Get in the car.  John stays, naturally, due to other obligations."

(Going in for a five hour stint at the clinic in Eastbourne feels abstract to John, but it's too late to call in.) 

Alex is waiting to hear what he is expected to do:  stay, or pile into the car with Sherlock.  The presence of the guard, John sees, is preventing Mycroft from stating much.  _So that's exactly how it goes_ , thinks John and crosses his arms.  _Heh, not for long, mate, if you keep that up._

Alex and John exchange an affirming glance, or rather two, which have not gone unnoticed by either Holmes brother; Mycroft blinks and looks over Sherlock more carefully, ruling that a deduction of his cannot possibly be correct.  He has to turn his eyes back to his Alexander, when he hears, "Shall I call a car, Mr. Holmes, or am I returning to London along with the rest of you?" the artist is asking, and the exasperation in his voice is barely masked.

"You may as well come along," Mycroft replies, as if the cost of petrol were a determining factor, and gestures to the guard.  (Sherlock rolls his eyes.)

Alex is forced to pack his things in three minutes, and nearly forgets his CPAP mask.  Everyone except John exits to the car, at last. 

Alex stares intently out one window, and Sherlock out the other.  

***

The argument that flares up just after tea at the _Diogenes_ \-- when Alex is thinking he would like to go home and rest -- has been long in coming, were both parties to admit the truth.  Even England's greatest strategist struggles to stay afloat in the gush of well-founded charges, made all the worse by the moment Mycroft notes that Alex has lost his patience with him.

"So as I understand it, Sherlock has contributed enormously to this case, in which as many as seven local officers and their superior have taken active part in a frankly sordid cover-up of a mentally disturbed teenager's cold blooded murder of four elderly people?  And this child, the son of the superior officer, has been secreted away to a boarding school!  While they look for more ways to get away with it all!  Is this why Sherlock's retired friend tried to commit suicide!  He couldn't bear the loss of face to the force and the community, any more than the public can endure another blow to their confidence! After the defunding, as well!  I am absolutely mortified that this has gone on so long, you must have put two and two together months ago, kitty!  And if anyone's children had been hurt?  Is that why the Detective -- sorry, Detective Chief Inspector, I know I got it wrong.  Who knows if that lad wasn't a demoralising influence there, as well?  I cannot believe that any arrangement is worth so much -- so _much_ dodging of the truth.  Your brother is a national hero.  Legendary!"

"Always his defender.  There is an element of truth to that.  Even so, he has made grave errors in judgement that do not allow for --"

"He needs this.  Let them acknowledge it, darling."

"No, the more excitable, the more likely he turns to substances to wind himself up even more."

"I don't think he would ever break his promises to John."

"Alexander, what can you know of addiction?"

"Less than you do, granted, but -- he is so devoted to his relationship, I've never seen anything like their marriage!"

Mycroft hesitates, remarking in a more moderate tone, as he has been unexpectedly humbled:  "I've seen a longer arc, in their affairs, however."

"People change, and grow."

"Variously." 

"Love makes anything possible."

"However --"

" _Anything_.  Forgiveness, mercy, compromise.  In any order."

"That is oversimplifying things."

"Kitty, how can you say that."

"Change the subject, you're tired."

"This -- detainment -- is all about upholding a long, thick net of lies, is it not."

"In some respects."

"Free Lady Elizabeth Smallwood from Gruen.  He has harassed her."

"Ah."

"You once failed to remove that other man.  Remove your protections, now, however you must, let Gruen fail in his interests.  Eliminate the threat he poses to her, so she knows she needn't keep it in reserve.  It worries me that you'd make exceptions _for such despicable interests._   Gruen quite possibly hides war crimes -- he does, doesn't he?  Why does _he_ walk, and Sherlock is in detention?"

"Facts known to a handful of people.  I suggest you put them out of your mind."

"You must put a stop to that entire arrangement." 

"That is not possible, now."

"It is only a matter of priorities.  Anything is possible."

"Given mutual love, as you've claimed." 

"But how much is an impasse actually worth, with such a man!  Don't tell me you can put a price on it.  Mr. Holmes, why support unchecked political interests?"

"Unchecked?  I think you've said enough."

"Really!  A better question:  how can you expect me to watch it?  I was not given two eyes and a mouth to shut them all, in the face of abuses.  And neither were you, so we're clear!"

"My primary interest is in _delaying_ a war on European soil."

"Yes, yes, of course, I know the dangers," Alex nods and takes a long breath. 

"Alexander, do you hear!  _Delaying_ it!  Not 'preventing', as those days are irrevocably behind us!" Mycroft growls back, and is immediately as shocked at the sound of himself as Alex seems to be.  

"Mycroft."

"Apologies."

"I know I have a number, in my heart," Alex says.  "I'm 'ultra', so that I'll be returned to MI6 if things go very wrong.  Not because I should be 'ultra'."

"Alexander, I am not protecting -- the number protects _you_ ," Mycroft says impatiently.  "How can you have inferred so many things, so incorrectly!"

"If someone -- I don't know which -- which -- parts of my identity are still -- are still -- oh, Lord.  I can't keep it all apart, I've not got the mind for this.  They came to me, passed on papers to prove their connections and I never wanted things to take the turn they have.  Ever.  But when an 'enemy of the Commonwealth' tells you he wants your own lover ousted and shamed...and shows you things that suggest insider information, well, it all pointed at the committee.  I certainly hope nobody is listening to us, now!"

"Naturally not.  I'd heard a shuffle might come about."  _A whisper in a storm that should have been more._

The artist rubs his hands sadly and clasps them at his waist.  "Lord knows I'm not made for this.  I'm not." 

"Which is why I regard your thoughts above others'," Mycroft replies, sensing an oncoming crisis that has been delayed for many weeks, about a certain marriage record, a curious will and testament recently reviewed at the solicitor's, and several arrangements which are near collapse.  "And why I'd like to keep you away from it all."

"This secrecy about us, I realise, is about influences.  Maybe others' opinions?  Isn't it?"  _Holding off on me, as John put it?_

"That is -- not -- a simple matter."

"Is it because of your colleagues, in fact?"

"Alexander."

"If you'd admitted ages ago that I am not anyone's 'successor', not one of your secretaries, nor an expert -- of anything.  Beyond _portraits_."

"Little one, this --" 

"That I am no one.  Yet, silly me, I have had access to the very things some would love to build a career on?"  Tears well up so quickly that Alex's voice breaks. "So you can't show me now?  I know you haven't removed that record, and it connects us -- "

Mycroft raises his brows.  "Ah." 

"Might it draw 'someone's' attention were it revised again?" Alex waits to hear a denial.  That is, he hopes for one.

"Yes, it is among the facts that would draw the ire of at least one person should he understand your opportunities in relation to his own," Mycroft admits. 

Alex raises those impossible eyes to Mycroft's; his slim form is now like a tensely drawn stroke.  "We can't carry on," he says.  "There are too many lies, wrecking everything of any value between us."

"It has immense value," Mycroft states, chest contracting.  His throat will be next, that he can feel. 

"Thinking of the years ahead, denying that we love each other, to people -- I cannot imagine it! " Alex forces himself to say.  "The lies left to tell.  They haunt me.  If I know I will lie, and do not resist it, what am I?  A hollow man.  I am most _saddened_ \--" Alex gulps, wiping his nose messily, and caring little, mostly over the effort of choosing but one word.   _Saddened_.  "That -- that --"

"Alexander,  you will listen --" 

"My public life -- does not exist except in the form of lies.  I allowed that.  On good faith.  At times, mainly because I couldn't bear to tax your nerves by refusing. No matter what you call it, it's -- it's love, in the closet.  But why must it go so far!"  Alex yanks the lovely pocket square from his jacket and claps it over his nose.  "Dropping my hand like a coal, _at the sound of a telephone_.  Shushing me when I walk across the room lest anyone hear over a secure line that you are not alone, at all hours!  You said -- you said a beautiful thing, once, that I was ' _among your clearest choices_ '."

Mycroft nods.  

"Mr. Holmes, I know about those sort of choices.  So I _cling to that_!"  

"As do I."

"That you didn't take me lightly.  _I know you didn't_."

"No.  No."  Mycroft casts a blanked gaze at the floor between them.  His mind is in a terrible blur.  As is his vision, at the moment.  He tries to regain the ability to breathe, first.    

"A question," Alex continues, pressing his fingers under his nose, worried it is bleeding.  "Answer.  The truth."

Mycroft nods, suddenly hot inside over 'the truth' -- that his own lover should _state_ that.  _And have reasons to._

"Whose opinion matters so much to you.  Edwin's?" Alex has just asked.

Mycroft presses his lips together.  The pause grows and Alex's ears begin to ring from pressure and exhaustion.  "Say it, Mr. Holmes, who."

"A delicate arrangement.  It concerns mainly Edwin and Elizabeth --"

"I've already told her that we're lovers."

Mycroft had not deduced _that_.  In fact, he is most furious at himself, but it comes out as a horrible grimace Alex's way.  "Why did you do that!"

Alex sniffles, "She's not a woman who lies.  Who tolerates it.  You know why."

 _For God's sake, when.  Ah, then._   Mycroft shakes his head.  "I'm afraid you'll not be pleased to hear that _she_ recommended Sherlock's detainment, first thing this morning!  By her initiative.  I have to think of my brother!  We _need_  their favour!"

"I might have told them all, at the very start:  that I'm only your lover."

"Alexander."

"-- But I didn't know what I _could_ say, and to whom.  I _did not know_.  You'd not want that sort of exposure, not now, I thought, and I saw a chance for -- I am terribly stupid.  Only a fool could imagine he'd win an inch."

"You've won plenty."

"Through Gruen?  Or Robert Culver?  No.  They're just business people looking for favours, and that disgusting G-Tech happens to be a 'neutral' player for hire.  War crime track-covering.  What is this world coming to, I have asked myself.  I don't know what I am doing, I tried to get some information and all I know is that Robert will take a position in the Board at G-Tech, and that Edwin has boasted the Lady has a unique angle on you."

"A unique angle.  'Audacity' would be complimentary, at this point."

Alex raises his chin.  His pulse is visible in the delicate skin from jaw-line to shirt collar.  "I agree."

"Do you." 

"An enemy of the Commonwealth, living and acting freely as he wishes, in London, kept in a glass penthouse overlooking Westminster, not far from my own flat, one designed by Dr. Jens Lindberg no less, and who seems to have been under the protection of some members of the security committee, if I am not mistaken!"

"We keep them close."  Mycroft closes his eyes.  He has just had a terrible thought, and the timing could not be worse.  "Of course I know why Sherlock's involved himself.  Every signal that information is for sale is of interest to us.  Do you follow," he says, mainly to himself, as the artist seems too distraught now to focus. 

"Follow whichever path is an honest reflection of what is in your heart.  As for me, I refuse to lie any longer."

"For the time being I must ask that you --" 

"No.  Thank you, for everything."

"Alexander, wait for the car."

"No."

"Sit down at once."

"No.  Let me be.  I said, let me be."

"You're very pale.  You'll stay."

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." 


	35. To all concerned

_"Hope is a path", you said once, intending to encourage me._

_"Perhaps one trodden into existence by those who would have a path", I replied._

_Do you recall it?  You wept over that careless remark, for which I have never apologised.  I am keenly aware that I have given you -- my heart and very pulse in this life -- little 'hope' , and 'carried' you in such a manner that precluded the formation of any visible 'path' for us.  This is among my gravest misjudgements of purpose._ _You, in contrast, have been both hope and path to me, namely the first tangible prospects for a joyful future.  However, instead of giving you the comfort and assurance you needed, I asked, explicitly or implicitly, that you repress your identity and feelings._ _The misrepresentations of our relationship, even in my personal versions, have been deplorable.  I apologise for allowing myself, out of a despicable complacency and selfishness, to expect you to tolerate them.  Indeed,_ _I hardly dare ask for anything more, as nearly everything I value has come from you alone (given unreservedly and unselfishly), but I must beg for your forgiveness, even as I wonder if I am beyond the reach of your mercy.  My love, little one, I will accept any answer of yours as the truth._

_I have little practise with letters, any more:  during these years, you have written stacks of invitations, thanks, regrets, or condolences on my behalf._

_I appreciate what you were in fact sparing me from,_

_namely_

_Mycroft L. Holmes_

 

***

The wretchedness in Mycroft's note is genuine -- many days of worry, self-loathing and deep thought have led to those few (raw, from him) lines.  

They would shake Alex to the core, but the artist does not choose to read the letter when the driver, Rodney, delivers it to him. 

Alex sets the ivory envelope (similar to those that had held formal and gradually less formal invitations, to tea) on the centre of the kitchen table, seal up -- because it is closed with oxblood red wax, using the Venetian seal fob; the image of the dove is crisp, with every tiny letter of the inscription legible.  He fingers it, then leans over and yanks open his curtains, and sheers, so should one wonder if the letter has been opened and read -- well, that dearly missed but misguided person will see easily that it has _not_.  Alex is trying to be brave -- he has just got off the phone with John -- as part of a new ritual he has agreed to uphold.  After leaving Mycroft's office he'd dialled for a secure N line -- so that there would be no record of the sound of his voice in that state -- and told John what he'd done.  And John had told him, loudly, in front of a patient, that he expects to get a phone call three times a day, and that there will be no talk of letting anything get out of hand, and for fuck's sake, things have to start working because otherwise he will come fuck things up in London exactly as he deems necessary.

(It doesn't take many such days before he does take leave and come to London.)

This state of things allows Alex just enough sanity to keep track of time and act, and sanity, it seems, could remain in very short supply.  After all, Mycroft's note might assert that they have no future, Alex worries, so he should at least like to have settled a matter or two properly in the mean. 

He wears a blank facial expression every bit as well as everything else, and there is little to read in it, which he considers best (for all concerned).  Reports of his activities are lean; he mainly leaves home to go to Francis Street -- as he always has, via Greencoat Row -- to attend the Latin mass nearly every morning at 10:30, and occasionally sings.  

It is maddening (to all concerned).

***

Robert Culver has an adherent, in Seth, meaning the security committee is plunged into further chaos.  This chaos would never be visible to anyone from outside, as it presently exists most saliently in Mycroft's mind. 

"Quiet.  Oh.  Where's the assistant?" Sir Edwin asks during a tea break, feeling all too cosy in the company of Mycroft and Elizabeth.

"He is not my assistant," Mycroft replies, throat now aching so that he does not take another sip of tea.

"Aha," Lady Smallwood says, raising a brow ironically.  "You mean...not any longer."

"Finally came to his senses," Edwin comments, intending smarmy praise where it could hardly be less wanted.

"My thoughts exactly," the Lady answers.

"Out of place, bit of an eccentric, never was terribly sharp," the man mutters, mistaking the Lady's light eye roll for agreement.  Thus Edwin will be missing out on one of the most ironic wordless exchanges Mycroft has ever had with Elizabeth. 

(And Mycroft is not accustomed to this needling, not generally having had enough exposed to drive a point into.)

"We already established that he was, or has come to be, very recently.  First time for everything?" she asks.  "Was it, though?" she asks Mycroft, who pales.

"Afghanistan in relation to the newest blockades on imports," he snaps at them both.

***

Almost two and a half weeks pass before the receipt of a handwritten note from Alex dislodges a sigh (though not yet of relief); it is a simple request that Mycroft be home at seven-thirty the following evening, delivered to the elder Holmes at his offices in Whitehall, though addressed to the _Diogenes_.  Mycroft replies on the reverse side (and sends it to Great Peter Street) that he shall be there. 

It is not hard to imagine in what state of agitation and broken concentration he spends the next several dozen hours; he can hardly bear to move, during the last one.  His back seizes up at the sound of the car, and the bell.  However, the length of the bell does not resemble one of Rodney's or Alexander's rings:  indeed, Mycroft receives John Watson, instead.  "Come in.  What can I do for you," Mycroft asks, flatly, "as I assume this concerns an appeal on behalf of Sherlock."

"Not that, but it's on my mind, sure. Will I see him again, like, very soon?"

"Yes. And?"

The sullen doctor explains that he had come at the artist's request, as he might be prone to panicking, "for reasons I don't think I have to go into."

"I see," Mycroft replies.  "You'll be among the first to know about the arrangements.  Have a seat."

"Uhm.  No.  I'm not staying, I was just supposed to give you something," John says.  "Alex was worried about getting it to you, so here I am."

"Ah."  Mycroft sinks inside; he notes that his uncertainty is becoming a near-constant pressure around his heart. 

Mycroft watches John reach down and unbutton an outer coat pocket, from which he pulls out a black velvet presentation box, the smallish sort one might use for a ring.  "Uh, this."

"What does this mean," Mycroft murmurs.

"Don't know, just delivering it."

"Ah."

There is a painful silence.  John licks his lips and clears his throat. A thought occurs to him.  "Uhm.  That one from you, it's still on his finger."

Mycroft nods almost imperceptibly.

"Taking it?"

"No."    

"You know about the will.  His situation.  There's a will in his family.  He...wanted to...settle it.  Not saying anything, just.  Talk about it."

Mycroft's stony silence is sufficient reply to John.

"You do know about that thing, eh.  So you also know he wants to give all that money to charity?"

"There is a larger issue."

"I guess," John grunts. 

"Thank you for your willingness to help, John, but that will be all," Mycroft says.

"The least I could do.  I'd just take it."

"Thank you, but no.  That will be all."

John shrugs, stuffs the ring box back into his coat, sighs, and pulls his phone out of an inner pocket over his chest.  He dials, and mutters, "Yeah, hey.  He wouldn't take it."

Mycroft gulps and stares disbelievingly at John.  "Enough," he whispers.

John shakes his head and glares Mycroft's way.  "If you say so.  Are you sure?  Want me to stay?  No, sure.  Sure.  Well, come on in."  John rings off.  He looks Mycroft up and down.  "On your own, mate."

Mycroft stares back and squeezes his teeth together.  John lets himself out, or if you will, lets a very pasty, solemn, grey-fringed man _in_.  John presses the black velvet box Mycroft had just refused into Alex's palm, and leaves the house and drive without as much as looking over his shoulder.  While it feels more than a touch arranged, Mycroft's growing breathlessness is making the particulars of the moment difficult to follow.  He is pleased to be this close to Alex, while completely unnerved by self-doubt.  Alex looks as though he needs to be propped upright, and it is very tempting to lean forward and reach for his shoulders, hold him, smell him, kiss his beautiful eyes and cheeks.

"Good evening," Alex begins, in a cautious tone, unsmilingly.  "I've read your letter.  Thank you. Of course I will destroy it so it will not fall into anyone's hands."

Mycroft looks deeply into Alex's eyes, and finds no sign of irony whatsoever.  He would almost prefer to have seen it:  _I have done this_.

"Mycroft, you are _not_ beyond mercy, never say such things about yourself," Alex continues.

"But can you forgive the lies I have told about you, and to you, and all the ones I have asked you to tell," Mycroft answers.  "I don't expect so."

"I want to.  I'll need help." 

"Please, if you ever could."

The artist is now holding out the little black box.  "For now, I want you to take this, and make a decision about how we'll resolve things."

"Alexander, little one --"

"Imagine -- what we can be if we do not lie."

Mycroft shakes his bothered head, and accepts the box.  

Alex waits, hands folded at the waist.  Mycroft glances at him once more, prepares a few words he might use in reply, and pries the lid back. 

And pales.  Appallingly.  The box seems to swim in Mycroft's palm.  He raises his eyes to Alex's, finding them wetter and less reasonable than moments before.

"Is it the right sort?" the artist is asking.

When he remembers to, Mycroft draws in a deep but shaky breath.  He would say so much (wouldn't he?) were his tongue not deadened by shock.   


	36. At a loss

A question has been asked and yet dozens more seem to layer in before Mycroft can force out any words.  He nods.  It is absolutely the right sort, and it is stunning to have a chance to affirm it.

"Oh!  Oh, I'm --"  Alex covers his eyes for a moment.  "Glad, so glad!  You are always victorious on Earth and in Heaven, my Queen, always, always!" 

(That utterance is certainly not intended for the elder Holmes, who is also trying to place his own gratitude in a manageable framework, with very little success.)

He had wondered and worried countless times where he would happen to be -- or how he might respond best -- if this _(this!)_ tiny plastic and metal thing, a microchip with a serial number that ends 4-0-0-3-A, and which looks to be in pristine condition -- should ever turn up.  Even the darkest of those scenarios or resolutions had seemed more plausible (given Mycroft's construction) than this one.

"I hardly know --" the elder Holmes begins.

"I won't be staying.  This is all very recent, and I wanted you to have it straight away."

"Sent -- with John?" Mycroft asks, and stares down at the chip again, as if to verify his own reason. 

"He'll be overjoyed, so happy."

 _Another secret blown open._  It is so _hard_ to breathe.  It is not the time to demand explanations as to when Alex had let John in on the problem of the missing chip, nor why.

"So, now, you may look ahead," Alex says.

Mycroft raises his eyes, literally, to a figurative challenge.  And the view is unbearable:  Alexander is standing just over four feet back.  _If I'd taken this from John, you'd not have come in to see to it yourself._   He swallows drily.  "I only look ahead to hearing what you've decided."

"I'm not ready to talk about it now."  Alex looks as if he might turn and walk out at any moment.

"Understood."  Mycroft imagines crushing himself, reasoning that it would hurt less.  He snaps the black box shut and shudders at the enormity of the gift that has been handed to him.  The latest of many gifts.  He bites away another word of protest.  "May I ask where...?"

"It was kept at Barclays," Alex answers, quickly.

 _Barclays._ Mycroft raises the box to his nose.  _The last gift given to Elizabeth, by her late husband.  A white sapphire in platinum -- thus the box from 'Tiffany and Co.' -- a last attempt.  At reconciliation._   "How did you get it from her."

"I asked her for it," the artist says; again, from anyone else, Mycroft would suspect a second bottom or a terrible joke behind that.   

"I beg your pardon," Mycroft replies, controlling his tone as much as he is still able.  "In what manner would one ask for this?"

"I told her we needed a chip from Appledore, that I thought Gruen might have it, nothing more."

Mycroft can only gape at the artist.

"I fancied she might know something.  And, sure enough, it was her souvenir."

" _Souvenir_ ," Mycroft repeats, as his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Alex seems to be waiting for him to check his message; he pauses, and then explains, "She had no idea you needed it.  Or that it _differed_."  

"No, she didn't.  Did you tell her?"

"No, I didn't think to."  Alex bites his lips, and continues, because he has questions, too:  "If you'd only trusted her a bit more.  I noticed she refers to the murder according to Sir Edwin's version.  Except it's far worse, isn't it?  It wasn't that Sherlock provoked a shooting by a nervous sniper, at all.  He fired the shot, didn't he?"

"The shot he took was very risky -- to the forehead, poorly considered.  Yet he will not explain a thing."

"Better to the nape," Alex is saying to himself.  "Elizabeth has no idea, does she, that Sherlock did that."

"Because she would feel complicit, Alexander.  Understand that her health was fragile, at the time.  And remains so, though she'd never admit it.  Edwin and I elected to spare her that."

"He holds that over you, as well?"

Mycroft's pocket buzzes again.  "Among various other things.  I've told you, there are arrangements."

"Perhaps you should take that?" 

"Apologies, it never stops."  Mycroft sighs at length.  

"Well.  No matter what happens, keep courage," Alex says, and steps back even further; moreover, he is reaching behind himself for the door handle.  "I'll be on my way."

"Where?" Mycroft asks. 

"Home."

"You might stay, longer," Mycroft blurts, as he sometimes has before, for instance at the very start of their acquaintance.

"I'm sure you can hear what is happening in my stomach."

"Yes.  What is your INR?"

"Two point seven as of the day before yesterday, two nine as of two hours ago, John pops by and measures it," Alex says.  "I'm afraid --"

"Yes?"

"I will be spending the evening -- managing this -- stomach, if I'm lucky only the evening, so I _must_ go home."

"I am sorry to hear it.  Take care, call me at once should anything, should I have anything of --"

"Good night."

"No, wait.  I'm clearly not in my right mind, I've -- not managed to express," Mycroft stammers, "nothing I can say will embody --"

Alex puts up a hand.  He has managed this conversation at a certain price and it is truly tearing him apart. 

"Thank you, Alexander.  Thank you on behalf of my brother.  I don't yet understand how you've done this.  Thank you."

Alex leaves with the most polite bow of the head and shoulders, and his eyes brimming over with tears.  It is awful to look at it, and worse still to be unable to touch him. 

The next thing Mycroft processes in real time is the sound of the car driving off.  _To hell with every yard, every block, every mile._

 _Enough._ The fire is ineffectual in the room and he cannot look into it for long.  Dinner is desolate, a half-hour later.  He reaches for his phone at about ten, and opens his messages, among them:

_You'd better have taknit by now.  JW_

_You'd better have TAKEN it by now.  JW_

 

The day is not 'the one' that Mycroft had awaited, for years.  Even so, at the end of the day -- or rather, at two in the morning -- he decides that it will have to do.  

If not for a frightful hangover the following morning, and that little black box on the bedside table, one could still imagine the entire event as a sort of mirage, in fact.  

***

"What is the matter with you, today?  Have they moved your desk off-centre?" Sherlock blinks, glancing up at the metal caging on a lamp overhead until his eyes smart.  "Better.  Mm."

Mycroft huffs and tugs at his trouser creases as he takes a seat across from his brother in an austerely furnished but spacious detainment area, one usually reserved for officers awaiting stickier debriefings or mid-level "misunderstandings" in the services. 

Sherlock has just learned he will see John soon, and is acting out wryness and dryness, though the idea of a few 'stolen' kisses and gropes on camera is becoming rather arousing. 

"Why hasn't Alex been by with biscuits, I've been _incarcerated_ here," Sherlock sneers, lip curling. 

Mycroft shakes his head and stares at a speck on the table in front of Sherlock's hands. 

"Perhaps he's in Zermatt.  A dream of his.  Frankly bursting with well-heeled, jaded older men, keen to indulge his prattle, perhaps some less concerned first and foremost how the career will hold up?  Where is Alex."

"Sherlock." 

"Don't tell me you've managed to put paid to him, too."

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft does not respond.  Further, he is suddenly so pale that the mottled flecks on his nose and cheeks, and neck (which Alex has declared swarms of constellations, under which he would bask unsleepingly -- if he could only stay awake past ten), are standing out more like organic stains on taut linen.    

_Oh._

Just when their shared silence seems to hum in Sherlock's skull, Mycroft utters one of the most human things Sherlock has heard in that voice, not counting novels read aloud:  "Brother, I believed I was acting in our best interest.  In yours, particularly.  I have arranged a spectacular failure, and I do not know what will happen, it is hard to breathe not knowing.  It is as though the entire world is holding its breath and expects the same I do.  To be flattened." 

Sherlock chews at the edge of a fingernail.  "Why are you still here, then."

"Why have you _put yourself here_ , that I am here," Mycroft sighs, regretting his admission already.

"That?  Someone had to watch over things.  Oh, all right.  We'll talk about him some more.  I say, go off and fix it."

"As he expressed it, we are not 'able to move forward'."

"That's just age.  Don't say I've never told you that you're older." 

Mycroft makes to stand.

Sherlock folds his hands on the tabletop.  "Sit.  Had to happen.  It's about the closet, obviously."

"There is no _closet_." 

"It is, I thought so.  You're an awful liar, among the best there are.  But making _him_ lie?  Carrying on like he's a minion of yours?  There is such a thing as too much truth to a lie.  Hell, that works for some -- who don't _care_ , but he's _not like us_."

"Thankfully."

"Thankful?  You?"

"What sort of monster do you think I am."

"Am I actually going to answer this?  You're best classified as a goose and elephant fusion," Sherlock declares.

"Thankfully," Mycroft retorts, "I've avoided stoat and emu territory."

"Shut up."

"It was never about --" Mycroft clamps his mouth shut.

"Ha.  Nooo.  'Naturally not'.  Nobody has a clue who he is.  Good for you.  You could put off the big reveal.  Looks like it's been put off indefinitely?  Is that the problem?"

"There are actual risks.  To you, as well, brother.  Why are you smiling, _can you not_."

"'Can you not'," Sherlock sniggers.  "A Lexie-ism.  Or a "lexeme"?"

"Should his role in various capacities and his relation to me come to light, it will disrupt everything, shake trust where I cannot rebuild it."

"Oooooh.  Noooo." 

There is a loaded silence.  "However...."

"What.  What!  What did that mean," Sherlock hisses.  "What is really going on this morning?"

"Plenty," Mycroft sighs.  

"Oh, now you're forcing me to agree.  Ugh."

"You'll live."

"Lifespan shortened, not the first time.  I asked you something, some _things_.  _Why_ are you still here," Sherlock asks. 

"You know my dilemmas."

"Of your own invention, if we're thinking of the same ones.  Which we're probably not, because who on Earth could get in your thick head.  Oh, there was that...one friend."

"You know my difficulties.  Gruen, among them."

"Mmm.  There be aeroplanes and drones for those.  Zermatt, was it?"  Sherlock waves flippantly.  "I don't remember.  But you have people for that, call the Kremlin and tell them to shut off the weather-maker thingy already."

"It exists, so you know.  Alexander is in London, I assure you.  He needs time.  I do not.  I cannot live without him."  Mycroft lifts his brows and shakes his head.  "So.  Congratulations will be in order, brother."

"Thank you.  You're welcome."

"No, you will congratulate _me_.  It appears I've become textbook," Mycroft mutters to himself.

"History, in the absence of chemistry.  Now get out of my cell, you're losing hair on the floor."

"There are worse things."

"Name _one_." 

"Such as borrowing John's nose hair trimmer?" Mycroft quips. 

"Shut _up_."

"I'll ask him to bring it along this afternoon."

"Piss off already, you're supposed to be fixing things." 

"Mm.  True. By the by --"

"I believe it's actually 'bye-bye'."

" _By_ the by."

"Mm?  Ugh.  Finally, real talk." 

"Hush.  We have got it, brother."

"Mm." 

"We have it."

"Yo." 

 _"It_."

"It."

"In fact.  It."

Sherlock swallows hard.  _It.  How.  Who cares how.  Now?_

He wants to hold John _now_ , and so tightly that his entire upper body aches with it.  There is so much to explain.  Or so little.

 _No.  Too much.  What is it._ He looks across the table at Mycroft again, and something hits him squarely, in the heart:  there is a joylessness and confusion that could mean dozens upon dozens of things, or, only one.  "How much."

Mycroft shakes his head. 

"How much.  Mycroft."

 _Nothing._    

"Who.  _Who_!"

"Look again."

"Noooo.  No.  Where is the catch!  Oh."  _Oh, how._

One thing is clear -- Mycroft is at a loss, and not even for the first time in recent hours.  _Not good._ Sherlock will not comment; anyhow, his mind is racing like mad.


	37. Based on what

_"A few minutes of what I'm feeling for you."  "Gladly."  "So pull yourself out of your chair and trousers," I said, and he laughed, "Ah, nearly as bizarre as 'look up a word and a skirt', do recall that one?"  We'd been eating supper together and I'd not choked down much, and he saw it.  /  "Due caution." He sniffed, and started to smile all over again.  "A chance encounter with an acquaintance, Meredith."  "Sorry?"  "First name basis.  Literally, as I hardly knew her.  It was incongruous --"  "Oh?  Meaning...?"  OMG hilarious.  "After a cycling accident at the seaside, in Norfolk, the result of adrenaline and checking one another for injuries."  He was absolutely serious.  He cleared his throat, probably at the floor for its willingness to receive me, I was laughing so hard by then!  "Change the subject?!"  "But I like second-hand adrenaline, as you kindly pointed out before I even knew your name," I told him.  "True."  "But who even starts conversations like that, telling a man he seems to like 'adrenaline by proxy', if he doesn't secretly long for it, too?"  "One who does not long secretly enough," he said, raising a brow, "and I was improvising."  "Mhm, me too.  Good start."  "No, it was not."  "I'd never have guessed.  Well.  Pretty was she?  Easily forgiven for the adrenaline?" I asked.  "She had strong legs.  Yours are far prettier, however."  Finally he laughed, and then slowly he let his face fall to a light frown, like he was trying to shut it all down again.  Lord knows what for, so I took his hand and kissed his fingertips.  "Unless 'someone' knew who I was, the position I occupied, shall we say there was no queuing up," he said.  "I can't believe that.  What about the first boy who got you off, etc."  And I was pulling open a button or two or three and I kissed him very hard so he'd stop saying beautiful things, reminding me at a good time why I may consider myself lucky & for the rest of my life.  I opened my mouth to speak but he was already kissing me back, and pushing me down to the bed.  OMG, I moaned and bit my tongue.  "I admit..." he said, a hand in my hair, stroking the side of my head as he covered my mouth and chin in little bites, "I'd never cared for it.  There was no joy in it, at least no response I cared to see again." Later, "Tell me what I am."  You remember how it started, volume:  Shall I tell you what you are, little one?  And I said, tell me what I am.  And every time afterward he has answered differently.  This time, "beautiful, about to turn over, so that I can kiss you."  He whispered it just over my throat.  Very hard & couldn't be touched any more & he made us so slick & the way he got in me while he kissed me, I was beyond stopping myself from anything, anymore & I was laughing like a lunatic but so would you if you felt every awful thing in the world had just been pushed away from you so completely.  _

"Jesus."

_Dear volume, I've not wanted to leave a record of what I've been feeling lately.  Instead, look for yourself, if you would, at any of the entries, above, to see what I would want the world to remember.  His beautiful letter, which I still haven't been able to put away for long, and even his apologies in person do not sit well and this morning I realised why -- no mention of wanting to change our situation, or ideas for the future, and even when I was telling him my feelings, he had no answer on that point.  S says: "What is missing matters most.  Look for what is missing."  What is missing in my life, were someone to look at me, is the man.  By this I mean that anyone can look at me and see I am not alone, though they'd never reach who I love unless I told them as I told Elizabeth.  To him I am like a dirty secret -- easy to keep because the pressure from the outside is so intense._

"Shhit."  John's ears are burning; he is self-conscious enough to double check the rooms -- less for reading than for the unexpected, restless feeling in his lower abdomen.  He'd meant to grab a glass of juice from Alex's fridge. He'd fallen for the siren call of an open, handwritten journal on the table in the kitchen, and that had supplied -- _a lot too much information on the one hand.  Not that it doesn't read well.  No.  Sorry, sorry, just snooping like a five-year-old in your...extremely private diary -- that's actually about Mycroft, right.  Jesus, the fuck did I just read, Jeesssus._ The eye washing and a lager 'to forget' will have to wait.  For now, John is newly armed with facts (some of which he will _really_ need to pry forcibly out of his mind's eye as soon as possible).  

He does not get the juice he'd wanted; instead, he marches to the bathroom door, where the artist has been taking a bath, under direct orders.  "Done?" John asks, knocking loudly. 

"Nearly done, put on a record -- a vinyl, if you like," Alex calls back.  "The switch's on the left, let it warm up first."

"Got it."  John flexes his hands and looks over at Alex's weird old console.  _That actually works?_ He snicks open a door on the front of the cabinet and crouches in front of a row of tiny, colourful album spines.  Their smell (dust, inks mainly) is tickling his nose, unless it is something else, like 'sentiment', _and yes, that seems to be it_.  There is a brass switch on the front, and he flicks it to the side and opens the top to peer in. "Hey," he calls toward the bathroom, "this thing is sort of loud, this hum is normal?  The Zeppelin on the turntable all right?  It's the B-side."

"Mhm."  Alex opens the door and steps out in a short, greyish-olive kimono, his hair towelled dry  and finger combed off his face.  His eyes are every bit as red as when he'd gone in.  "It was my brother's.  Mycroft's favourite, actually."

 _Wow._   "Listen, I'll be going in a while.  To see Sherlock.  You, uhm."

"Yes, I'll just throw on something warmer.  I can still hear you, go on."  Alex steps into his bedroom and seems to be searching in several drawers.  And then sighs through the act of dressing that thin, anxious and aching form.

"About yesterday," John begins, trying to project his voice.  "Not -- to stick my nose where I --"

Alex comes back, head-to-exposed-toes in textures and graphite grey ('anthracite', close to black).  He mumbles at the living room floor until he notices his house slippers.  The way he drags his wet, round eyes over other things around them is upsetting to look at.  "Sorry, what?  I have got to finish the wash before I forget again.  I'm out of pants.  Oh, you can turn it on, now.  The humming's dropped off."

"Right."

"What were you asking me?"

 _Shit_.  "Everything all right?"

"Turn on the player, if you like.  The -- album."

"Sure."  John presses a white plastic button and watches the turntable arm come to life, flick down and sway over the first grooves of the vinyl.   _Hah, it's been ages._   "Listen.  I don't know if you realise but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have what I have, with Sherlock -- yeah, always bloody eloquent.  Look.  I owe you."

"I can't imagine what for," Alex replies.  "You were always perfectly matched, who could want anything less for you?"

 _You'd be surprised._ "You stopped me making a serious mistake.  That night he and I had a row.  I had to hear some things from Mycroft to know the truth.  And I left, ended up in a train?  Until it hit a brick?"

"Oh God.  Yes, of course."

"I was ready to call some things off between us, because he...sometimes left me out of decisions, or hid things he thought I wasn't ready to hear.  I couldn't let go of that.  Thought I'd reached a limit."

"But he wanted to marry you, in fact, he was setting up his 'proposal scenario', actually, secret beyond secret."

"That.  Right.  See, I didn't know that.  That he wanted that.  I thought he was trying to avoid marriage.  See, and he wasn't.  So, it just makes me think, how we don't know what the other person means by what he does.  That he, you know, wants something else than it looks."

"Quite true," Alex answers.

"Did Mycroft take that black box?" John ventures. 

"Yes."

"Worked it out?"

"I -- no.  That black box had -- had -- the.  Oh, this song, oh my God."  Alex covers his nose.  "The box.  John?"

"Yeah?" 

"I gave Mycroft -- that is, I gave him the missing microchip from Appledore.  _We_ took it to him, John, that little chip was in the black box."

John reels inside.  "What?  You -- ffffucking what?  You found it?  Just like that?"

Alex stares at John as though he'd not understood a cue.  "So he has it now."

"How...did you." 

"And I hope it helps, because," Alex sighs, " _it has to_.  Has to, that's all."

"If it helps, hah.  You're a -- fucking genius.  And I have never told you that, have I.  Heh, sorry, but you are _bloody_ amazing, Alex."

"It wasn't me, the Holy Mother suggested it in a dream, and I just had to wait for a good day to make it happen.  And yes, I am taking my meds, John."

"Amazing...I just.  Don't know what to say."  _Uh._  "Does Sherlock know?  Got to tell him."

"I don't know.  In fact, I need to do some folding...."

"That can wait.  I want to see you eat before I go."

"I don't really want anything."

"Doesn't mean you're not going to eat.  Listen, what you did, if he doesn't value that --"

"He does value it."

"About what I said, that he was holding back on your relationship, I don't believe that."

"But it's the truth.  He has kept the truth from his colleagues, especially.  I asked him, and he confirmed it."

 _Fuck._  "Won't come out?  Is that why you -- sort of left?"

"It's complicated."  Alex looks at John for a moment.  "Just a second, I want to show you something, it won't take long."  He pads back to his bedroom, returning with a manilla envelope, which he opens as he approaches John, and gestures toward his sofa.  

John sits down next to Alex and watches him dump out an assortment of colour and black and white photographs of various sizes.  The artist plucks out several of a blonde, slim girl with high cheekbones, smiling, loving eyes -- and endless legs.   _Wow.  Nice.  Right, a secret sister?_ "Uhm.  Hm.  Who's she?  Oh, that's --"

"I know, I look straight.  In fact, it was taken about two months before our wedding day."

"What?  But."  John clears his throat and lines up the photographs in a row between them.  "Didn't know you'd -- yeah."

"No, I called it off.  And I hurt this girl so badly.  Yet, it was the right decision, because it meant I would not live a lie."

"Figured it out late, sometimes it's late.  Right.  Where is she now?"

"She works for City College.  She's a specialist in colour theory.  Ah, actually, your former French teacher, Kadi, was her neighbour, about ten years ago.  Small world."

"Yeah.  Wow."

"So, I wanted to make someone happy, and I might have managed, but I could not have called that 'love'.  What I'm trying to say is, I was terrified of taking a holy sacrament just to follow through on a big mistake, and then lie, every single day of a quiet, pretty life with her.  Am I making sense?"

"Yeah.  So, what about this."  _We're all fucked if you don't work this out._  

"I literally decided, a month or so ago, that I'd do it, I'd propose, we'd fix the record, and all the rest.  Perhaps you know when, more or less.  Then I realised, what is my love worth, if it is all part of a huge lie, and there's no end in sight?  Can a marriage survive if it is based on a huge lie from the start?  Like, he is alone, not gay, and Alexander Nussbaum, when he even exists, is a portraitist on contract, or an assistant.  And I am -- I am absolutely destroyed right now." 

John nods and blinks away some unexpected emotions of his own.  "Uhm," he coughs.  "Look, I think he knows he made a mistake.  You saw him."

"But do you agree?  That a marriage based on a lie will never survive?"

"Yeah.  But I think he knows --" John is getting rather desperate inside.  A lot depends on this talk.  _Don't fuck up._   "-- And he needs you.  With him.  And I think you know your place, too.  Just talk."

"Why am I literally dying inside, John, I can't do this."

"The thing you want hasn't changed.  Uhm.  You know you can't be yourself and have what you want most, too.  Ha.  Unless you talk it out and meet halfway.  Yeah."  

 


	38. The art of making up

It has been a session of "thorough, meaningful and deliberate dialogue" to the subcommittee which has spent seven hours on creating an internally inconsistent mission statement, and while Mycroft had 'endured' only a four-minute summary, he has been asked to project public spending for three departments and suggest adjustments for the formation of -- a new committee.  That will take less than two actual minutes, including a phone call, though he is not keen to interrupt a certain daydream of his which has started and restarted several times since his long morning run. 

He scrawls out a recommendation.  He revises a word or two out of nervousness.  The hour he has chosen for the-only-meeting-that-counts is approaching, when he will appear, unannounced, at Great Peter Street.  For the occasion, he is in absolute knots; self-doubt seems to push at his skin from inside. He is dressed to face nearly any outcome, in a sombre suit which is almost funerary, now that he regards himself hyper-critically (he cannot avoid peering at himself, as his favoured barber is in Thailand on holiday). And this habit of being constantly pursed and wrinkled around the mouth, as if he has terrible news to report (he does -- but nobody should know about _that_ ), has to stop.  Unrealised kisses have had a cumulative effect on his reason, as well: in better times, Mycroft would be little inclined to respond to a texted prod by John Watson. 

(John has seen the effect of "planted" ideas before and has ordered Alex to change into better clothes, do whatever he has to to relax, and make something small but decent to eat, for later.  And sketch something out.  Mycroft is even thicker and better able to block himself up than Sherlock, thinks John, and in the face of a high-level fuck-up of his own making he probably won't move for ages, without a virtual kick in the arse.)

***

"Oh! Anthony rang a moment ago that you were here, when, well, lovely that you are here," the artist exclaims at the sight of Mycroft at his threshold. "So, do come in, please." Alex is wringing his hands in a way that suggests chilly fingertips, at first glance.  That is hardly the most striking thing: his eyes are lined faintly in charcoal grey and their lids dusted over with a pearly colour (-- _he had been interrupted, at the brows_ ).  Mycroft stops himself staring, but loses any ability to take in a proper breath.  And he desperately needs one.

"Sit down, oh, I'm sorry, Mycroft, where is my head -- I'll have your coat."  As Alex speaks, he glances over at a stack of clothes. Mycroft has already noted that the folds on the stack of silken pants are the type made by a certain retired officer, who'd probably not minded having a look at their design, on the pretext of lending a hand. There are also two dirty plates and glasses left over from an "enforced" mid-morning meal.  The room seems too warm, and Mycroft is glad to shed the topcoat and hand it over, though they both move to hang it behind the door. 

"Thank you," Mycroft manages, letting go when he realises what he has done.

"And your case?" Alex puts out a hand, much as he might to bring a man closer, though the object is...the object.

"Ah, no," Mycroft replies, with a small cough.

Alex is simply (not simply in the least, and _would be_ ) the most pleasant interference to breath.  Mycroft blinks and reminds himself that he has been received more than gracefully, and he must not spoil things by assuming too much.

Now he has been silent for too long.  _Blast._

The artist picks up for them both, "Well, in fact, I was about to write to you."

"Were you.  Ah."

"Yes, and I couldn't find -- and I thought I might try -- you see, you always read my thoughts, I was thinking we should talk very soon.  And then Anthony -- I already said that.  I was about to --"

"Yes?"

"In fact -- make myself up."  

"Yes," Mycroft says stiffly, wishing he could see what would follow 'making one's self up':  the arousal, the path of the artist's hand, or hands, the clothes and the pushing aside of clothes.  It is agony to want so many permissions at once. "May I?" He gestures toward the sofa.  _Should I ever think of you again without despair, it would be enough._

"Yes, of course. I'll be right back." 

Before Mycroft can answer, Alex has rushed to the toilet, where he can be heard running a small stream of water, to remove what he seems to see as a distraction (here Mycroft is hit with a pang of anxiety).

The elder Holmes seats himself, noting that he is breaking out in a sweat, between the shoulder blades.  He squeezes the handle of his briefcase in his palm, annoyed at the interference to his concentration from the sort of environmental deductions that would normally have calmed him: looking for evidence that he has been missed or needed is a humbling process.  The console has been cleared very recently, and he would really like to know what is on the turntable.  

"Right," Alex declares, returning to the room.  "How are things."

Mycroft would not know where to begin about that, though one topic suggests itself.  He clears his throat.  "I've spoken to Sherlock, about the microchip."

Alex folds his arms loosely over his chest.  "Have you?  What did he say?"

"Very little.  He is -- ah.  Every bit as surprised as I am, in truth.  Though perhaps it is too soon to say he is relieved."  Mycroft flashes a tight smile.  "May I thank you again, on his behalf."

Alex nods politely.  "John is with him, now, isn't he?  Mmm.  Oh -- you've brought papers?  Why don't I make us something warm to drink.  For your throat."

"Yes, please."  Mycroft has files, indeed, which he now pulls out of his briefcase before setting it aside near his feet.  "May I ask," he states, now enunciating every syllable, because his raspy throat has already betrayed his nerves, "before anything else, that you review these, where I have marked them?"

"But what are they about?" Alex asks, leaning over the back of the sofa to look at them, giving Mycroft a chance to sniff him discreetly.  "Oh, I see."  The artist's breath catches a bit.  "Oh."

"Measures to be taken according to various eventualities in case of my incapacitation or death.  This one of ours, now, resembles an 'incapacitation' scenario.  I'm referring to a scenario, not to the state of my health.  Presently, I've got a headache, nothing more."

"Lord be praised for that.  I'm sorry you're feeling poorly, I'll put the kettle on.  White tea with rose petals, or Ceylon?  Mmm?" 

"Thank you, bitter Ceylon," Mycroft answers.

"Bitter Ceylon. Of course, Just a moment."  Alex backs away to the kitchen, in that peculiar manner of his, as though his interlocutor were the Queen herself, and is heard to rummage about, pour water.  He returns to the doorway and peers at Mycroft.  "Has there been another alert?  You've run, and you're tired, less from lack of sleep and more from speaking to people."

Mycroft isn't certain whether agreement is useful here, or not.  "I appreciate your powers of observation, all true.  There have been plenty of meetings," he explains, "though I'm here about these papers. And something else, which I did not mention in my recent letter."

"Oh." 

The silence and stare that they share is broken by the kettle clicking off beyond Alex's back.  Mycroft sinks inside at the realisation that nearly anything could happen in the coming minutes.  As if by cue, Alex nods and turns away to pour a pot of tea; Mycroft hears him fumble with the lid and mumble an epithet at himself.  "John took the rest of the digestives to Sherlock," he calls out.  "There are a few truffles, if you'd care for them?"

"No.  Well.  One. No. Never mind."

Alex returns with a very pretty, wooden carved tray inset with a marred, mirrored glass, on which he has arranged a small, pastoral Spode pot and two cobalt teacups, with golden rims gleaming like -- Mycroft shuts his eyes for a moment.  _We must tell him._

"Even I can see you've an awful headache," Alex remarks, setting the tray on the table between sofa and armchair. He doesn't move to sit down, however. "It's the committee, no doubt.  Let me get you something for it, what shall I give you?"

There is nothing in the collected medicine cabinets of England that would help; a simple touch on the shoulder would do.  Mycroft waves a refusal. 

"If you're certain.  So, what's happening, at work?" Alex perches a half-cushion to Mycroft's right, nearer the table.

"We are receiving," Mycroft remarks, watching the undulating patterns of the steam from the pot for a moment, "dangerous signals about an oncoming shift in power, affecting no fewer than four top energy-exporting countries, through controlling interests in an airline, of all things.  There have been leaks once again in the strategic planning arm for the Baltic States.  A new form of trafficking requires an urgent legal solution nobody will touch until spring, when it is too late.  There is so little initiative to address matters of importance, I suspect a hand from outside is interfering once again.  As for the committee, Edwin has new demands, which he sends through Elizabeth, as he claims he cannot rely on my 'channelling' any longer.  There is no accord among the remaining members, whatsoever, and as for Sherlock, it is one of the least interesting issues in their eyes, at the moment.  Should I give the truly dreadful news, you may regret asking me in, at all."

"I don't know what you mean," Alex answers.  "I'm sorry you look so tired and that they're not helping you."  (The claims seem genuine.  _Why shouldn't they be, we have loved one another_ , Mycroft wrangles with himself.)  "Show me what you've brought, then." Alex picks up one of the folders stacked between them.  "Mm, there's a lot."

"These are marked up with red tabs indicating completed or expiring arrangements, yellow pending, green unaffected."

"I don't think I --" Alex flips through a pile of contracts, receipts, records.  "-- Have any idea."  His eyes widen.  "I don't know what these are, I'm sorry."

"You are looking at the most important affairs that bind us together."

Alex opens each and runs a finger over a random item or two, seemingly with less and less understanding.  His hands are trembling so much that he finally stops.  "Can you explain what these are about?"

"You said we would have no future, should we carry on as we were, and I began sorting what needed a word from you.  These are shared interests. They are marked with regard -- one moment...."

"To civil status." Alex stares down at his hands.

"Among other things.  Allow me," Mycroft replies, "to show you what I h - have done in the mean, concerning your records."

"But are we married according to any of the records?" 

"No, I've corrected numerous entries, in the mean."

"Have -- you."  Alex blinks back a sudden flood of tears, and nods quickly.  "You see, there I go.  I'm _sorry_.  I can't stop this, I don't know what to say. I don't know."

"Allow me, then.  Alexander, listen. They are now fully intact, which will present new difficulties. We should speak about those.  Perhaps later. I don't want to tire you, now. They are double-marked in red and yellow tabs."  Mycroft swallows; it hurts.  He swipes a hand over his forehead.  There is so much to say, and his body is already failing, as instrument.

"Mycroft. Perhaps you'd 'be mother'.  I'm perfectly useless right now."

"And I'd not offered. Who is worse."

"I beg you not to compete with me, Mycroft, I will win that one." 

"Never. May I?"

Alex's fingers bump Mycroft's as he tries to hand him each of the cups; finally, he takes one but soon asks Mycroft to set it aside, and wipes his eyes.  "I'll -- or not, no.  Tell me, finally, what were you talking about earlier, when you said there was something you'd not written in your letter?"

"Yes.  I.  Alexander," Mycroft sips scalding tea and coughs lightly, clapping the teacup loudly against the saucer before trying to set it aside.   "I beg your pardon.  Take this, if you would.  Thank you.  Listen to me.  That I ever overlooked any of your hopes, in favour of advantages in my own work, is indefensible, as I told you," Mycroft explains, reseating himself.  "I am very sorry.  Ah -- take this kerchief, for your nose.  As I was.  Saying.  Indefensible."

"I'm sorry.  Yes, I know what you're trying to do, I do understand."  Alex cannot remember seeing Mycroft this discombobulated. 

"Trying, indeed."

"Thank you." Alex bites his lips and blows his nose loudly.  

"Tell me what you need, so I may repair what I can."

"You are all I ever needed or wanted in my life."

"But you were not happy at my side. I hardly trust myself with your feelings."

"I wanted everything, but I can't hide all the time in plain sight, it's impossible.  Exhausting."

"Yes." 

"Humiliating to a man, you know, don't you?"

Mycroft presses his palms against his eyes.  "Yes.  I do know."

"Maybe from the start you should have told me.  'Alexander, you want too much of me'."

"You confound me, truly."

"Mycroft, I." 

"No.  I mean that you've never wanted too much of me.  It was my failing that I did not offer more. In the beginning, I was not aware that the secrecy was so costly to you. I took for granted that you'd accepted it.  Later, I turned a blind eye to your discomfort, in the game that is my work, because it seemed safer to us both."  Mycroft pulls himself up from the sofa enough to reach for his teacup again.  He gulps a bit of the hot Ceylon and looks squarely at Alex.  "All is not well with me, why pretend."

"What?" 

"What I've done is perhaps for the best, regardless of the poor methods."

"What have you done," the artist asks, gently.

"I've told them, where I have had the opportunity."

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft takes a quick breath.  "The members of four of the committees.  My entire staff, many of whom had no idea who you have been to me.  A number of peers in four of the Ministries, seven of the sections at MI5.  Several acquaintances in the House of Lords.  The Prime Minister, of course.  Members of the Family, Her Royal Highness -- she already knew that you were my partner.  And that I have loved you, at times very, very unreasonably."

"Gracious mother," Alex says, crying into his hands, "Ohhh my God, Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes, what for."

For a moment, Mycroft can only watch, as well as one could hope to, in his state.  "It required less manoeuvring than one might expect, as people easily noticed your absence," he finally explains.  "I told them they'd had the pleasure of meeting my partner." Mycroft is slipping.  He looks away and presses his lips together until they smart against his teeth. It doesn't help.  "They asked -- 'When will your assistant come round'.  'Where is the secretary'.  It impressed on me the enormity of what I'd expected of you.  For naught, as they are perfectly willing to turn away any gesture or favour over the pettiest nonsense.  Nobody takes exception to the news, of course, which is not to say you are safe.  You are not, and we are not.  Personal information is most readily weaponised."  Mycroft shakes his head.  "You have -- a bit of a following, in certain sub-departments, particularly in the MOD."

" _Lovely people_ ," Alex sobs into his palms.

"Starved for a spot of humanity.  May I quote you, because my words are of no use."

"What?  Don't say that.  Where would we be without you!"

"You said it best:  'It's all got to be brilliant, from now on'."

"Ginger kitty, darling.  You'll not ask me to lie about what we are.  Ever.  Ever. Do you swear?"

"I will not ask you to lie, I swear it.  And may I ask --"

"Whatever kept you from doing all of this before --" Alex sniffles and pauses.  "Oh, I suppose it was about the microchip?"

"No.  I'd begun that before you brought the chip to me."

"Really?" Alex sniffs and leans his head down against Mycroft's shoulder.

That gesture is their first contact in more than three weeks. 

"Yes," Mycroft whispers against Alex's crown, in reply to everything that hangs in the air -- _yes, and yes_.

"But whatever it was, we'll get through it."

"Pedestrian enough -- when one's identity never brought him joy, only threats, his choices are fear-driven.  Textbook."

"No such thing as 'textbook', Sherlock says 'textbook', too, you know."

"Also my doing."

"You know what I think.  No textbook could...mmmm.  Mycroft, there is something I'll need."

"Name it, you'll have it at once."

Alex raises his head and looks deeply into Mycroft's eyes.  "Are you very certain?"

Is he.  "At once." 

Alex's lips soften at the corners, and the little smile there is so hopeful, and welcome, that in his relief Mycroft feels himself pulled toward it,  though Alex is still on the other side of a stack of files perhaps four inches thick.

Very disappointingly, Alex turns his face away, and even leans over to pluck up his teacup, managing to spill it.  He tuts to himself, raises the dripping cup to that soft mouth and takes a long sip, eyes flicking to Mycroft's, now rather promisingly.  Once he has replaced the cup in its saucer on the table, for its own good, as he mentions, he says quietly, "I suppose you'll have to go, soon?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft blurts.

"Do you have to go anywhere."  Alex's eyes, reddened with emotion, are unambiguously dilated. "Please say no."

"No.  At most, a change of room, should you want it," Mycroft replies.  "Are you well?"

"Yes, very.  Very." 

"What did you need."

"A...thousand kisses," Alex answers.

Mycroft can hardly believe his ears, which are now ringing with pressure, though there is growing hope of rapid displacement.  "Ah -- in fair warning, ah -- however --"

"Mmm?"

"-- I may lose count," Mycroft declares.

"I count on you _not_ losing count, Mr. Holmes."

"I have misspoken," Mycroft says next, because he must clarify one point:  "I _need_ _to_ lose count of them, and you to reset them for us." 

Alex slides a hand into Mycroft's jacket.  Mycroft's breath is picking up; he strokes the side of Alex's hair and brushes it back over his ear, just as Alex leans his head further into that small gesture, and seems about to crawl onto his lap, "Mmm... _oh_!  Oh, dear, look what I've done!" All of Mycroft's file folders have slid off the sofa, and the array of colourful papers spread over the carpet is impressive, though admittedly horrifying.  "Oh no, I'm so sorry," Alex moans, "after you put all of that together for us, I'm always able to be hopeless --"

"For a good cause, you were going to say?" 

Alex pats Mycroft's tense thigh and tries to laugh, but cannot. 

"No bother," Mycroft tells him, "none.  Come here."  And he accepts a long kiss, deepened even more when Alex has a knee between his thighs, and a hand at the back of his head, and the first sounds that escape the artist's throat are very warm, indeed.  Both of them are starved, and not only for 'humanity', so the suddenness of need is shared completely, and they are soon gasping and groping for fastenings.

"Please, you cannot expect me not to, let me, darling.  Oh yes."

"The blue room, in Tokyo.  Do you recall sitting this way?"

"Oh my God, yes, of course I do."

"And the rest."

"Mmmm, that tiny bed, how our legs were, that was hilarious, actually, and you were...as...hard as now.  Let me." 

"Please, another moment." 

Alex grasps Mycroft again, licking into his mouth with a little growl.  "Mmmmm, tell me this is happening for real."

"You must stop me, if."

"Ah, then it is real."

"Alexander --" 

"And if you are demanding refusal, I absolutely refuse.  Ha ha!"

Mycroft sniffs a laugh to himself.  "Alexander, little dove, we cannot, ever again, in that manner."

"No, never." 

"You will tell me everything, do not carry on in silence.  Promise me." Mycroft has his worries, and they are well-founded, though now is not the best time to sluice them.

"I will.  I promise."

(Alex will keep that promise.  And the truth will save them, though not in the way each man might expect.)

Mycroft has to know -- and finally asks what is on the turntable, on the way to Alex's bed.  Alex leaves him to go and switch it on, in reply, but it takes more than three minutes; Mycroft is as nervous as he is happy, and when Alex finds him seated at the edge of his small, tall bed, and suspects that 'troubled' is about to win out, he kneels next to him and covers his face in kisses.  

There is a number Mycroft will hold very dear:  it is one hundred and thirty-six [estimated], due to an exchange over removing shirts and pants, when both men are painfully in need, and a flood of emotions has found an outlet in a few heated declarations:

"There are no measures known to me by which one could calibrate a -- reward for -- your fidelity, and I love you -- "

"I love you, too, and I --" 

"-- Though in this formless drivel I'm not certain whether I'm asking your forgiveness for -- ah, you mustn't put --"

"Darling?"

"-- For the haste, lateness --"

"Mycroft?"

"-- Or the wording that results --"

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Yes?"

"Marry me.  Someday." 

Mycroft nods, "Essentially that, yes."

Alex's eyes are now shining with emotion and confusion.  "Yes.  There we are.  Yes?" 

Mycroft blinks himself to fuller alertness.  "Have we established it, then."

"Ha!  So there we are!  Yes.  Oh, my God!"  Alex leaps onto Mycroft's lap and throws his arms around the man's bared chest. He buries his face in Mycroft's neck, and finds a rapid, even wild pulse, which he kisses, next.  "Oh!  Oh, ginger kitty, what a day!"

"I admit that after what I'd done during the epidemic --"

"No, it's all forgotten!  All of it!  I told you!"

"-- And the mishandling from my side of so many points --"

"Kitty."

"I reasoned that the only workable solution would be a proposal from _your_ side."

"What?"

"That it must be your initiative, Alexander.  Particularly -- in the light of the Villiers testament."

"You knew. And didn't want to mix things. That is so Holmesian of you!  Of course...." Alex nearly blurts how right and bright is Captain John Watson, but holds his tongue.

"Perhaps it is."

"But I am so happy."

"It is a pleasure to have no doubts about that." 

"That's beautiful.  So, now.  Will we go in for a long one or a short one?"

"The longer session is preferred over the short," Mycroft replies, reaching for Alex's arm.

Alex pets Mycroft's hip.  "In lovemaking, absolutely.  But I meant long or short _engagement_."

And here, stripped (as only boxers and a shirt remain to be pulled off fully), Mycroft Holmes catches himself -- a jumble of arousal, shock, joy and even fright -- and bursts out laughing, mainly at the idea of _engagement_ in relation to himself, this self, and that one should immediately declare intent as to preferred length, of all things. 

He snorts and crumples a hand over his eyes and nose.  "Ahh," he sniffs, "there is no need for the usual hoops, I suppose it could be tomorrow mid-morning."

"What!" Alex stares, open-mouthed, which is unbearably charming.

"Shall we tell them _why_ they are being transported, or let them infer it once they've arrived and each received a pen?" Mycroft quips, glancing over at Alex between pale fingers.  "What are your thoughts?"

"Tomorrow!?"

"Then it is settled.  Tomorrow morning, first thing, so that you may still have that expression on your face when it is done."

"Ah ha ha ha!  Oh my _God_."

"That one would do, as well."

"We have to tell Sherlock and John, prepare, I don't know.  Just may it be very soon.  Oh my God, I cannot believe this!" 

"If you cannot," the elder Holmes remarks, "then we are done for.  Truly." 


	39. From the outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence and minor character deaths.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"There's something I always meant to explain, and never had a way."

John puts up a finger.  "Before you do.  I know what you're going to say.  And yes, I wish you'd shared it a bit earlier."

Sherlock furrows his brow.  "As much as we've become accustomed to each other's thoughts...."

John sighs out through his nose.  "Anyone listening to this?" he asks.

"Not now.  Mycroft --"

"-- And you, had a problem?  Yeah."

"So begins many a tale." 

"And is this one about a microchip from Appledore?  Because, yeah."

Sherlock's breath catches.  Mycroft had not let on, or he had, and the surprise 'source' of the chip had eclipsed this little, tiny, sliver-sized fact. 

 _And that was Alex's and John's 'secret'_.  Meaning that sharing a room for a fireside hand job had come of its own accord.  So to speak.  _Interesting_.  Sherlock steeples his fingers under his lips and refocuses on a now-pastier John as he continues, voice a tone lower:  "And all that pussyfooting of Mycroft's has been about holding off blackmail.  In case anyone got their hands on that film, and tried to sell it, bring scandal on the police, and other services, and all his work.  Right?"

"Mainly." 

"I guess he has enemies with a long reach."

"Happens to the best of us."  

"Hah.  And your 'retirement' was all part of a prevention plan.  In case it came out.  That must have cost a...fortune.  I don't think I want to know the bottom line."

"Nothing outside the usual," Sherlock attempts to lighten what really cannot be lightened.

"Are you kidding me?  New Scotland Yard cut off consulting independent experts for a few months, didn't they?  Their numbers fell.  A lot."

"Yes."

"Right, and do you remember the stories?  Those people?  There were people who didn't get the help they needed."

"I know."

"That's not okay."

"I never said it was." 

"Sure."

"Some cases we managed behind the scenes.  But not enough."

"And I wonder how you'd both have kept that up for longer, I mean.  I really don't know how, but.  Shit."

Sherlock's eyes narrow; he chews his lips. 

"I get it, just."

"Just what, John." 

"Mycroft sees a conflict of interest, and goes in for 'scorched-earth'."

"In keeping."

"At home, too.  You know how it affected their lives, too."

"As I said.  In keeping with his methods."

"So, glad it's over," John coughs, because this conversation is hard on the nerves.  

 _Don't be, it isn't._   "Mm." 

"You do know who found that chip?"

"Why, do you?" Sherlock asks right back, though the casual does not reach his face and body.

"Alex found it.  Alex."

"Yes."  Sherlock glares beyond John now, at the far wall of the detention room, as when he and Mycroft had been seated in the same configuration.  _How._   It gives him the feeling of being in an odd loop, and it is annoying to have so little to do with anything that matters.

"Seriously, do we actually know who that guy is?" John asks, inopportunely.  "I've told you.  Superspy.  Bloody good actor.  I don't even want to know what he paid for it.  He thought that Austrian might have it.  Fuck knows what went down.  But, you know what, I'm not leaving it like this, there's no way," John goes on.  "You're going to -- I hope you were respectful when Mycroft came by, I really do, because either way, you, uhm.  I need to hear that you remember that we owe him.  Thank him.  Probably your brother's baffled now that it's all over, that he has that thing, just like that." 

Sherlock takes in a breath through his nose.  "He cannot usually be 'baffled', unless it concerns the degree of someone's stupidity."

"No need to be rude."  John has folded his arms tightly over his chest.  "Listen.  One little choice.  To stop it.  That's all you've got to do.  You'll say 'thank you' to one, and maybe even 'I'm sorry' to the other one.  I don't know why you don't have it in you."

Sherlock shuts his mouth in a line.   _Force of habit._   The force of a number of poor habits, that let him _not feel_.  The 'arrangement' he has pushed against for so long will change.  He is out of step, out of practise.  Often out of ideas.  As embarrassing as that is.

John continues, "Right now, he's wrecked, but."

"My brother?  Agreed."

John has Alex in mind, but now sits back in his industrial metal chair and sighs.  "Good.  Listen.  Are you listening to me?"

Sherlock nods.  

"You and I have a chance to get back what we had, let's not lose it.  Hm?"

"'Get back', what we had."

"Everything." 

There is a strained silence.  Sherlock asks, "Where is the loss, John."

"Last I checked, you weren't doing what you really love."

No answer comes _._

John puts in, "Were you.  We, uhm.  We live in a cow pasture, and keep our heads down.  Hey.  Hey, take it easy."  He stands suddenly, and comes round the table.  "Hey."

Sherlock shakes his head at any attempt by John to touch him.

"A lot's going on, and."  John clamps his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, gives them a squeeze.

" _Apparently_ _not_ ," Sherlock growls.

"Hey.  Hey." 

"Are you listening to yourself.  Either _nothing's_ going on or a lot's going on, decide, already, soldier!"

John's jaw tenses, hard.  He stands aside.

"You denied it before, you said you weren't bored."

"Not bored, just."

"You actually _miss_ this -- cesspit," Sherlock hisses at him.

"I do miss it, quite a bit.  Maybe that's something we need to keep wide out in the open." 

"Wide out, in the open. Mm.  Another cow metaphor, or is that just...me!"

John sniffs again, this time for real, and clears his throat.  "You don't want any of it back?"

"Want _what back_.  What exactly!"

"You know what I mean!"

"Oh.  You mean, the furthest thing from my mind!"

"Your career!"

"Oh, yes, that!"

"Come on, love, you know what I'm trying to say.  You just solved an amazing case, a case in a case, it's a sensation.  For fuck's sake, you're _Sherlock Holmes_!"

"And not only!  Yet, it is not enough.  Imagine!  That's a wholly new state of affairs!  Wow!  Super lovely!"

"Love, don't."

***

While entering the club, where he intends to leave the bulk of the files in his briefcase before going off to his next meeting, Mycroft unbuttons his jacket and pulls his notebook from the inner pocket at his chest.  There is a slip poking out of the cover; he has missed these notes, and the pleasure of having one again is about to spiral into something far more distracting, like 'nerves'.  

Once closed in his office he has a proper look at the little paper.  It is covered in Alex's slanted script.

 

                _My dearest husband (please don't laugh, I'm practising, and it's so exciting to know I'll get to say it to you in person, soon):_

 

Objectively (as though he could access the relevant categories at the moment) these rapidly-pencilled words do not differ much from other things the artist has said or written (which in itself is moving). 

 

                _When you see me again, I wonder where you will touch me first?  My entire body is ready to have it._ _W_ _hat will your first word be?_

_I_ _can't wait to see you again & you are literally in the next room washing up.  What state will I be in when you read this?_

 

Ironically, it is not any 'state' Mycroft would imagine, as distraction. 

***

Alex is mentally and substantively engaged to the hilt, in the middle of what he hopes will be his last meeting with Herman Gruen and Robert Culver.  He does not plan to enter into any agreements, or arrangements, and dislikes having to explain that yet again, but having received those few 'gifts' of intelligence, however unhelpful, he is certain they will expect a word or two about Mycroft's activities, upcoming budgets, and the like.  He wonders if they've persuaded Sir Edwin to act against Mycroft or Elizabeth -- and whether Edwin is now more open to that sort of proposal.

***

The artist had chosen the best driver he knows.

"Mr. Wilk.  You kindly agreed to take me to Eastbourne at a moment's notice --"

"No problem."  The Pole had already looked suspicious of what he might hear, next, and had reached into his shirt pocket for a packet of smokes, to stuff the first one he can bump free into the corner of his colourless lips.

"May I ask you something?  I understand you worked in Vilnius.  And --"

"It was nothing." 

"I'd no idea -- that is, I have never doubted, though I'd not realised you, well --"

 Wilk had winced noticeably, snuffling a burst of smoke though his nostrils. 

"You're very good at programming?  Is that right?"

Wilk had hacked away a smile, tempted to spit.   He'd studied Alex at chest-level for a moment.  "You know.  I don't do it now.  I'm driving.  Not so much stress, not usually.  Why you asked about programming?  You need someone?"

"Maybe so, we'll see," Alex had answered.

"Where I will drive you?"

"Do you know Herman Gruen?"

Roman had picked a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue with trembling fingers.  "When you go?"

"I'll let you know."

"In this week?"

"Today.  I might have a need for a -- for a very secure data search, as well.  Hopefully not, but perhaps.  You'll set your price." 

"What is address for that, which place in London?" the Pole had asked.

"The district?  Westminster."

"How far we drive from your house.  How much time."

"Just a moment," Alex had pulled out his pocketbook, removing a card.  "Here.  I need to keep this, though, will you remember it?  Have you been there?"

"One time maybe, for some work."

"Have you seen the floor?  It's quite spectacular, a back-carved map of the Atlantic seabed.  Ah, well.  So we'll go, in an hour, or so?"

"No problem, Mr. Nussbaum."

"Remember, Mr. Wilk, you were to call me Alex."

"And I am Roman."

"Right.  Are you going back to Poland, soon, Roman?"

"No.  What for.  There isn't what for, to go there."

(Sherlock had told Alex before that by listening to his intuition he'd become 'a formidable force'.  Yet even the artist has not put together the puzzle that is Wilk.)

"What do you mean?"

"My English.  Always shit."

"No, it isn't, don't say that.  But why wouldn't you want to go, dear?"

"No wife, kids with ex-wife and she is with our neighbour, doctor visit only in July, maybe I go then."

"Oh, my.  July?  We'll get you someone here, much sooner.  Whenever you like.  Tomorrow."

Wilk had suddenly looked away, eyes misting.  "He's family doctor, I will go to him."

"Should you change your mind, you'll tell me, Roman."

***

Gruen smiles to himself.  "Too high for you?"

 _My reaction to the church loft.  Perhaps other times are also on record, Gracious Peter._ "For a proper balcony, I suppose it is, yes," Alex remarks, peering down at a panorama of Westminster.  He runs a long look up the Thames, and his mind flashes over to Carly.  "Why are we wasting time, people are waiting."

"They are feeling no pain.  Would you care for a drink?  Robert, pour us a Scotch.  You see the predicament for an enterprise, like mine," Gruen remarks.  Robert clears his throat in warning, though it isn't clear to whom he is expressing his discomfort.

"No, I'll not have anything, thank you."  Alex turns away from the glass panes, shakes his head and continues, "The committee will continue to uphold the status quo.  You'd sooner diversify, I suppose."

Gruen's smile takes on a more menacing bend, "Our contacts require a fresh approach.  There haven't been many occasions to update relations."

"Inasmuch as anyone working with Mr. Holmes is familiar with his methods," Alex answers, "they will appreciate his thoroughness in determining how such contracts, and proceedings, relate to matters of long-term national security, and adherence to standards set out by international conventions and the courts of international justice."

"In definition of law, and the ongoing processes in policy making, Mr. Nussbaum, one does not turn to one but many advisers."

"Of course, and one will find an agreeable voice.  I understand.  So how can I possibly help you?" Alex asks.

"I won't deny that a change in the committee would allow for flexibility in taking local contracts.  Mr. Holmes -- with whose methods you claim you are acquainted --"

Robert clears his throat, again.

"-- Does not appreciate the opportunities for private firms at the local level."

"And why might that be --  after the identification of GTech mobile incinerator units on disputed borderlands.  Trust, Mr. Gruen."

"Two ways?  More.  Support on the new targets which are being drawn up in Paris, we can advise you.  And, one contact."

"The Paris question is beyond my competencies."

"Oh, we have every reason to doubt that." 

"Contact.  With whom?"

"The Estonian," Robert fills in, indicating a certain lack of patience.

  _Anna Valk, the translator?  Oh, Lord._ "I beg your pardon?" Alex asks.

"Mr. Holmes has an Estonian lover," Robert smiles, "says Edwin."

Alex shakes his head ruefully.  "Sir Edwin."

"Is he not reliable?" Robert prods. 

Alex channels a Mycroftian air of disinterest, "Not among my priorities.  To my knowledge, there is no such person, you'll excuse me."

"Holmes' monthly payments to a bank in Tallinn do not lie, I can show them to you," Robert crosses his arms and chuckles.

"They are of no interest to me."

"Anna Valk?  Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No.  This is easily clarified, it's odd that you've never merely asked, Mr. Culver."  Something pulls at Alex enough that he takes out his phone.  He has gone hot and cold inside so quickly that he hardly feels himself dialling Mycroft, and it is the sound of the clicking line, and its dissonance with the clicking in his chest, that makes him remember that he has a very keen audience, and this has to be a _very_ good piece of performance art, before he throws himself sunward, or worse.  "Mr. Holmes," he begins, when he hears Mycroft pick up.  "One question," Alex says quickly, glancing over at Herman Gruen and Robert Culver as they wait on that stunning backdrop of Westminster.  Robert looks particularly pleased at the direction things are going. 

"Ah," Mycroft replies.  "I cannot talk long, I'm just outside Buckingham Palace and the phones will be left with the guards." 

"Regarding personal communication with the Estonian, Anna Valk.  Advise."

"I cannot, now."

"On the contrary," Alex says, obliquely.

Mycroft stiffens.  He lowers his voice to a near-whisper into the receiver.  "It should be enough for you to hear that you are -- or, _were_ 'Anna Valk'.  Wherever you are, ah, I suggest you get out, immediately."

"Oh, I see.  Very fine." Alex swallows.  _Oh, Mother, please, we've come so far._ "I understand, continue."  _Mother, what shall I do?_

Mycroft's chest hurts.  _It is anything but, why should you ask this, unless._  "It was among the files I wanted to show you, recently.  Our shared expenses, at times substantial, were transferred through a bank in Tallinn with preferential conditions.  Anna Valk is a person, name now changed.  Once an acquaintance, once also a duplicitous translator, working on behalf of a certain agent, and he, for an Austrian of our acquaintance.  I had intended to surprise her by learning literary Estonian over a weekend.  To make a short story shorter, I soon overheard her mislead a team of delegates at an assembly of the World Health Organisation at the UN on a matter of critical importance in the Middle East.  I bugged her effects, tailed her, concluded matters, sparing her life but little else.  Hers is a common name and I used it as a marker."  _Apparently beyond its intended effect._   "Leave with Anthony, at once.  Please, Alexander."

"Thank you, that will indeed -- be all." 

"Alexander, leave at once.  Wherever --"

Alex has already rung off.

And Mycroft is beside himself, to the extent that he apologises to the Palace guard standing at his right and leaves the premises, to the shock of several others present.

"So, then," Alex says, pocketing his phone.  "How may I help you."

There is a bizarre silence, though in Alex's head there is a strong and loud resolution that he will not shy from the truth, especially to 'save' himself.  The game is up, as far as he is concerned.  He folds his hands at the waist, and waits for his interlocutors to catch on. 

Gruen understands far sooner who he is looking at than does Robert Culver, who is still gloating to himself over an imagined girl's tawdry secrets. 

"Mr. Gruen, you _have_ the 'Estonian'," Alex explains, with a smile which is not joined by his eyes, a disconcerting pairing on his face, even to those who hardly know him. 

" _Scheißdreck!_ You can't possibly have been this stupid," Gruen suddenly growls at Robert.  "You're playing _me_.  Explain _that_ ," Gruen demands of Robert.  "And why, on my pay, you still work for Mycroft Holmes!"

"What?" Robert asks, looking from Alex to Gruen with growing dread in his face.  "Oh, oh.  This is.  Exactly his style, Herman.  A provocation," Robert Culver explains, quickly.  "That's the reason -- how was I supposed -- I know how this looks.  I know."

"You're finished." 

"But, Herman, this is his _secretary, I'm telling you the truth_!"

Gruen still cannot believe his ears -- and that Robert does not see who _de facto_ is standing right in front of them:  a profound and unforgiveable failure in carrying out essential 'research', for one; the Austrian looks lethal, for the first time losing his 'elegant' facade. 

Alex's first impulse, to calm everyone in the room, is a good one, yet too well-intentioned to succeed.  He interrupts Robert, "The papers you sent along were of anecdotal interest, to Mr. Holmes.  _Erspar mir diesen Scheiß, das ist doch -- Blödsinn_.  _Das ist ein sehr unbefriedigendes Geschäftsgebaren_."

"We will make sure this is plenty interesting, to Mr. Holmes," Gruen replies.  "Have a seat."

Alex turns his eyes to Robert, finding terror and little promise of assistance.  "I won't stay."

"You can't possibly leave us this way, that won't do.  Robert, you'll wait there," Gruen answers, and his tone is unpleasant enough that Robert breaks out in a visible sweat, as he'd not signed up for much beyond taking a high salary for sitting in a Board or two. 

Alex understands his own vulnerability; he also knows that his ginger kitty has picked up on and will deduce a likely trail of events.  "You'll not keep me," he says, as confidently as one reasonably can in such circumstances.

"Nobody can reach this floor unless I wish it, and for now you'll stay, I said," Gruen remarks, reaching into his trouser pocket for reasons unknown, but most likely to block locks -- because a hard knock on the door startles all three of them.  Gruen seems most affected.  He swears to himself.

 _May that be Anthony, fully armed._ Alex steps toward it, not knowing whether to expect a captor or a saviour, and finding that he cares little, as long as the arrangement is disturbed enough to allow for a movement _out_. 

"Not so soon, no, just a moment," Culver answers, moving to block Alex's path.  He opens the door in response to a nod from Gruen, and finds himself face to face with man in a synthetic, fitted black balaclava of continental issue, by no means new.  It is unmistakeably Roman Wilk, Alex sees.  The same stony, calm eyes that have flicked to Alex's own, mainly in rear-view mirrors, or a quick side-eye on a street corner, are now flashing with open rage and hatred.  The Pole charges past Robert, shoving him back a step, set on his own agenda.  And where Alex stands, within that, is completely unforeseeable.  There is a mobile-sized, dull black device in Roman's hand, which could be nearly anything from stunner to pistol to poison to camera to drone, and none of the possibilities seem to include peaceful retreat.  "We were just finishing," Alex tells Roman, as though nothing whatsoever had gone so very wrong.  "Shall we go, now.  Down to  Anthony.  Shall we.  Now."

"Go out, Alex."  Roman does not look at him.  "You can't see."

"Oh not this way, no," Robert whispers.  "No, no, no!  Oh dear God, no."

"We all need you to do that, come with me, come along with me," Alex says, noting that Robert is in shock, and no longer blocking his path to the door. 

"Out.  But you say them, what is truth.  Tell Mr. Holmes.  This --" Roman points the device in the direction of Gruen's head, "-- is shit that makes us lose battle, lose every time!  This dog paid, to lose war!  Paid to lose and build again!  Pay terrorist to break what is rebuilt, pay to make mistake with army's top codes!  Political traitor, fucker!" Roman snarls at Gruen, who is standing rod-straight.  "Go.  Nothing works in building ten minutes, no alarm, no lift.  No escape, for you traitor dogs!"

Alex backs out the open door.  "Oh, Mother. _Why can't you tell him to stop!_ "

"Whatever you want!" Robert cries.

"Shut up.  You on floor.  And you!"  Roman Wilk aims the device straight in the direction of Gruen's face.  "No, I piss on your cold body if you talk! Both, face on the floor!  Get down!"

"Whatever you want, whatever you want!"

"Fuck you, dog!  Face to floor!" Roman yells at Robert, who is trembling on his knees, head forward in the middle of the living room.

The last thing Alex hears is Roman, shouting:  "You both _eat it_!"

He has no clear memory of reaching the ground floor by the stairs; he collapses against a horrified Anthony (3), who he meets about halfway down, and refuses to say a thing until Mycroft is at his side, and the deep state of shock is stirring enough that Mycroft breaks a fresh vow he'd made -- to tell even the most brutal truths -- and ensures by way of several techniques resembling traditional hypnosis that his Alexander will remember very, very little about his day:  the Estonian is but a woman in one of his file folders, Roman is in Poland, having salt treatments for his lungs, Gruen is in custody, to be extradited to France.  Robert is under investigation for tax fraud.  Carly is well, in the running for a prize, has found a new friend. 

Alex's bruises from a minor tumble on a stair-landing look awful.  But nothing would compare to what Mycroft's people had found up in that lovely, glass penthouse suite.  The clean-up, as it were, will be an ongoing process, possibly over years. 

***

Sherlock eyes the open corridor beyond his brother's back.  "What's really going on."

Mycroft blinks.  "Gruen and Culver, dead."

"Oh?"  

"A glance would tell you more than I could explain.  I'll have your things brought along."

"A glance."

"It was Roman Wilk."

"Oh, ho." 

"Poison and a stunner.  Took a dose himself, fought for his life, in hospital, another two hours."

Sherlock sucks in a breath.  "No he didn't, he intended to die."

"Can you, _for once_ , have some respect."

"Good morning to you, too.  So, you waved your wand and my dungeon was opened.  Don't tell me.  By Alex!"

Mycroft ignores that.  "By Elizabeth.  Edwin was headed their way, as well.  It was mentioned to Alexander before Wilk entered on the scene."

"Roman rescued Alex.  It was a rescue.  Interesting."

"Meaning the political murders were unplanned side shows?  No such luck.  I'd rung him and asked him and Anthony to bring Alexander down to the car.  He distracted Anthony and took his chance to carry out a long-held personal and political vendetta.  It is not easy to get near Gruen's flat, he would know, he was part of the construction crew on that flat, very briefly."

"So what have we got.  Edwin, mhm.  Our dearly departed engineer could have shown just a tad more patience."

"Stop it.  We've lost a very good man!"

"That we have."  Sherlock pushes out his lips.  "We have.  Taken as a whole, though, there is not...a committee as such, at present, for the time being, as it happens, am-I-right."

"You are. Edwin's discomfort over Alexander's identity, explained. He'd tipped off Robert that I keep 'an Estonian girl' under my wing."

"What does Alex know.  What does he _still_ know."

"Little. Roman arrived at a moment I hesitate to call timely, but from what I gather they'd just reached the truth about Alexander's identity and the tone of the talks had changed.  I suspect they'd have held him."

"Kidnapped him."

"I would not rule that out."

"Oh, la." 

"He is faring every bit as well as you'd expect."

"Meaning, better than you are.  Welcome to the truth." 

"Come along."

"Mm.  Worried.  You."

"As apparently _I have to do it for both of us_.  Apologies, I."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean."

"A bugger of a week, brother, be glad you don't yet know where this could go."

"Mm.  The warning that wasn't.  What, are you getting married?  Make up your mind, for once, for God's sake."

"Do you want your coat?  Ever?  Come."

Mycroft walks a pace in front of Sherlock.  The silence with which he is greeted, a velvet tunnel of opened doors and averted faces, continues all the way to Mycroft's car.  He passes it, and walks them in between buildings.  Sherlock looks about them and shrugs.

Mycroft opens his mouth.  "Gruen.  He...had a lot of leads in his hand, they were traceable, he was convenient.  That's come to an abrupt end, and we must find our way in it, anew."

A distant siren underscores a fresh tension in the air.  "I've heard that before."

"Yes, you have.  This is on a different scale, granted, and the players are not conventional 'criminals', which means it's a long game.  A lifelong game."

"If you choose to play it."

"Now I am forced to --"

"-- Ask me, how _not_ to play it, if one has never done anything else?" Sherlock asks, but his tone is not mocking, or ironic this time.

"I'd not got that far, brother."

"I know the signs.  Can you name a single thing you would not do?  For him?  You can't."

"No, I cannot."  Mycroft inhales sharply.

"Neither could I.  You hated it."

"Hate is the wrong word."

"Mm."

"It is closer to 'distrusting' the object." 

"Yup."

"I don't deny it."

The brothers eye each other carefully.

Sherlock sniffs.  "So.  I see.  You asked him?"

"Well.  Nearly a draw," Mycroft shrugs.

"I know what you're going to say.  And, regrettably, he already asked."  _Asked me, me, me, best friend, me._   Sherlock looks at his feet and smiles, all smugness, for all of three or four seconds. 

Mycroft lets him.  He adores an ambiguity, and this one may remain a favourite of his, for years:  "Quite so," he smiles broadly, to where it hurts.  "Thus I have something to ask of _you_ , little brother."

Sherlock glares.  "Oh, pul-eeze.  You're not doing this to me."

"I am.  No rest for the wicked.  I'd be honoured if you'd agree to stand with me."

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Sherlock snorts.

"Yes.  Because it means you would be required to stand quietly during a ceremony, and then register your own signature, and not an attempted forgery of mine, afterward?"

"What would I do any of that for."

"For having been a witness, to my marriage.  And yes, climatologists are in agreement."

Sherlock swallows and straightens his back.  "Brrrr.  Wouldn't miss it.  For the world, seeing as it's ending, soon."

Mycroft smiles again, though more introspectively.  "Well.  I wouldn't have it otherwise."

"Whatever.  The choice of method is interesting, I'll hand you that -- some would press a button and be done with it.  Do you still keep a list of those people in your pocketbook?"

"I mean it.  I wouldn't." _Have it otherwise.  Can we ever talk like adults, I ask you._

Sherlock gives Mycroft a one-over and huffs, "You probably do mean it.  Okay."

The fact of having a need for a best man is still bizarre to Mycroft, though not as much as having obtained Sherlock's agreement, and without wrestling, or drawing a short sword. 

For the record, he'd come prepared.  "So?  A word from you?" he asks, in need of summary, parity.

Sherlock rolls back and forth on his heels.  "O - kay.  Oh-ho-ho...yessss!" 

Mycroft has just pulled out a slim box of Sobranies -- the pricey black sort, Sherlock is pleased to see.  "Bless your little heart."

"Hush," the elder Holmes says, placing the gleaming end of a fag between Sherlock's overly-willing lips, and another in his own thin mouth.  "Ah, shhhite," Mycroft grumbles next, "have you got a match?"

"Me?  I am matchless," Sherlock sighs, airily, but digs determinedly through all his deep coat pockets.  _Success._ "Here, use this."

Mycroft recoils at the sight of a scuffed green lighter with the remains of a Union Jack sticker.  "Good Lord," he groans.  _The aesthetic dissonance, Alexander, were you to see it.  No, I'd shade your eyes._  

"What.  Dry sticks are hard to come by in the jungle.  Look around."

"We're down to whatever works," Mycroft puffs.  "Not the first time.  Ah, it's going.  Here."

Sherlock gulps.  He is about to miss his chance.  "Thank you.  Brother."

"Mm.  Whatever," Mycroft replies with an arched brow.

"I mean it."

"You probably do mean it, Sherlock."


	40. Same

Mycroft has been in a near-impish mood, which he or Sherlock might call "a side-effect of being delighted at more prospects than usual".  A few carefully-selected details will surely itch Sherlock's brain, on the _Special Day_.  For instance, Mycroft has requested the presence of Terry Wilburn (the kindly registrar who had officiated at John's and Sherlock's wedding, and had even been asked -- allowed -- to take a photograph of the party of four).  The promise of a hundred quid has Wilburn scrambling to find _that_ tie of his, with its rabid magenta-green paisley print on a mustard background; he has mere days to locate it, which entails contacting his ex-wife for access to a storage room.  There is no time to scour Ebay:  the likelihood someone will let go of that exact pattern, from C &A, is a story-problem worthy of -- Sherlock Holmes.  Mycroft is occupied with others.  (The mysterious death of Gruen has sent a subtle but palpable ripple through selected services, international banking and finance organisations, defence circles, European committees, and members of parliaments across Europe.  The absence of Roman and Mycroft's insistence that he is abroad worries Alex, who is eager to have the solemn man back in the driver's seat, for chats, quick escapes or longer excursions south.)

But there is a ceremony to think of.  It appears that "something old" has become a recurring motif in their plans, Mycroft notes aloud, self-deprecatingly.  And rather suddenly, Alex declares that _quite right_ , no suits will be sewn for the wedding, and no new shirts or other accoutrements will be purchased:  they will use what they have, because _they have plenty_.  Certain matters surrounding the Cape Town testament are likely behind the decision.  Their marriage will increase the value of the artist's personal estate by more than a third, briefly.  _Nostalgia, the brother, David, a factor_.  Mycroft had already made appointments for them both, but relents, much as he has already to an addition to the official vows.  He only alters them so that the phrases have five words each.  (Nervousness.)  He even consults his version on paper, insisting it not be read aloud (nerves, continued):  _I will serve my spouse / in a spirit of respect / with truth as my guide._  

It is so touchy, at every turn.  There are quiet resolutions, which are in a spirit of hand-guided, half-truth at best:  Elizabeth, in the absence of Edwin, is willing to review Sherlock's "provocation of a nervous sniper".  She agrees to a new bargain, in which Sherlock will receive a conditional pardon -- he will not be threatened with jail time, but his work with the police is not likely to be restored.  The retired detective himself does not comment.  (He never has commented.) 

John is visibly disappointed.  As soon as they are alone -- briefly -- when Alex is out with Mycroft at an interior ministry, and they are using his kitchen to warm up some take out, John asks Sherlock point-blank over steaming half-full bowls of noodle soup.  "Love, why not?  You can have it back.  You know you can."

"The third such plea in that wording...."

"Yeah, because I know what your career meant to you."

"Meant.  You're getting there."

"Remember what you were doing back then?"

"A way to be with you, please you?  I remember."

"What?"  John licks the corners of his mouth.

"Take it how you will."

"No, you explain.  What did that mean."

"To be with you.  To please you.  There is nothing more."

"Love, hey."

"Is it enough?"  _Am I?  That is what I am, what I am about, what I am still here for._

"It is.  Yeah, it is.  Listen, beautiful.  It's going to be enough, I swear.  Eat that, will you."

"Okay."

"We're about to go to their wedding.  Can't believe it.  Same place, same room, too.  You know what I'll be thinking about."

"Mm?"

"Best day of my life.  Best."

"Oh?"

"Best thing ever.  Happened to me.  Just.  What's wrong with me.  Shit."

"It's this disgusting decor, happens to the best of us."

"I don't think that would do it.  Has to be you.  I really love you."

***  

On a different day, the artist moves another matter, namely Mycroft's father's ring.  He hears that Mycroft intends for him to keep it.  Alex admits he would like something matched, made of the gold of two old rings, melted down together.  "I understand that you intend to use Henry Villiers' ring, and I will not agree to that," Mycroft declares, calmly, though only out of certainty over his deduction.  Ultimately, not to say reluctantly (again), it is decided that Mycroft will take Henry's band as is -- engraved "3 X 1963", to match the inscription inside of Alex's great uncle's self-winding watch.   

Alex asks several times if he hasn't forced things.  Mycroft finally reaches over to brush at the grey hairs that are hiding the tip of Alex's ear.  "I'll have it."

"It goes with the watch, it was all from his mum.  I've never known if the text was meant to be affirming or not.  Have you ever looked at it, kitty?  It will be yours someday -- sorry --" Alex says, before he can stop himself.

"If I may save myself _many_ _years_ of curiosity, Alexander, what does it say?" Mycroft asks. 

" _Latet enim veritas, sed nihil pretiosius veritate_.  Oh.  Mycroft, I didn't mean that as --"

"A universal, point taken."  Mycroft picks up Alex's right hand and examines the ring on his slender finger, more critically. 

"This used to remind you not to give in to sentiment, that attachments easily bring pain," Alex explains, "and it was a burden to you."

"I no longer see it that way.  And fortunately for me, you have one of the most stubborn minds I have ever encountered, and among those I include Margaret Thatcher."

Alex rolls his eyes lightly and blows out a breath, "Ha, am I really so stubborn?  I first came to see you because I wanted to refuse you.  Did I manage to?  No.  I'd noticed how long your fingers are.  And.  In fact that was some time later, ha.  But your memory, attention, and thoughtfulness were magnetic, to someone who -- had only just decided -- that he might like to see someone, or, for someone to see him.  Oh, my God.  I'm about to make myself cry again...I'm sorry."

"An impending marriage to me looms, who wouldn't be moved to tears." 

Alex dabs at his nose.  "Quite true, I'm so happy, I can't.  Kitty, I never thought you'd agree to this, ever.  Oh, my God."

Mycroft has managed to smile at the latest evidence for Alex's peculiar 'stubbornness'.  "Little one.  Another matter, entirely.  We have a meeting, soon, with the Prime Minister."

"Oh?  Will I be there?" 

"I expect you will be, as I explain that personal obligations will not allow me to maintain my present scope of activity.  To encompass only particular, critical areas."

"They never -- do you suppose it would help anything?" 

"I attempted to reduce my activities three years ago, recall, but it must come from above or it simply will not fly."

"What?" 

"You know well enough what I mean.  It never ends, otherwise.  What are your thoughts, there are options."

Alex is staring at his hands.  "My thoughts?  My true thoughts?  If you like, stop drawing _any_ salary.  Set an exit date.  We have more than enough, kitty, honestly.  Why not stay at home naked -- and play piano."

"An aesthetically challenging option." 

"No, anything short of that is aesthetically challenging!" 

Mycroft chuckles, his neck warm.  Alex is in Mycroft's arms as quickly as he can be caught and held.  And kissed.  "Alexander, slow down."

"Mmm, maybe at some point.  So should you, I think, as an advisor of yours --"

"The best of them."

"Really?  Kitty...."

"Really.  I don't know when I began marking my words and plans and policies by your heart.  It was subtle at first, or I fancied it was."

"I always knew you were thinking so much about people.  But you didn't have anyone to rub out your shoulders for you."

"That I did not."

"Or pet your head after dinner."

"That...no."

"Or to kiss you goodnight, until you come."

"I had never.  Had that." 

"And then kiss you some more.  Mmm."

"Come here."

Alex snickers and licks his lips.  "Later."

"Alexander.  Ahm.  Have -- you spoken to John Watson?"

"Mmm?  Oh, yes, I have!  I meant to tell you."

"And?"

"He was laughing at first, about being 'left-over'.  And he thinks it's funny we'll be in the same place, again.  I told him we'd first met there, and that we are also sentimental about it.  Yes, sentimental!  Now, should I have told him about the staircase?"

"Ah, never."  Mycroft would like to keep that sibling-free, _thank you_.

"They have to go home in the mean.  You know that already.  So we've decided he'll stay with me, the night before.  And Sherlock will be at your place."

"Good Lord.  Your love of vicarious risk-taking --"

"Mm?"

"-- Rears its...pretty head.  May I tell you --"

"Yes."

" _Carte blanche_?"

"Yes!" 

"I love you."

"Oh my God, please do, a lot."

"The distractions --"

Alex folds his hands in his lap.

(Since Mycroft is so 'distracted', shall we say, we'll leave that be, because he is embarrassed enough.)

"Alexander.  Perhaps there is no sense in waiting.  I've chosen a destination for our -- "

"Honeymoon."

"That, yes." 

"Oh!  Where!"

"It would entail a stop I've wanted to make.  Which I delayed arranging until I was sure --"

Alex bites his lips.  "Sure of --?"

"It was a recent matter, with a very attractive invitation -- but I couldn't conceive of travelling without you, or a clear resolution.  Never mind.  We will pass through Minsk, one direction, either at the start or finish."

"Where --?"

"I want to take you to Lake Baikal."

"What?!" 

"Someone owes me a favour, shall we say.  What are your thoughts?" 

"That's -- in Siberia?  That one?  Oh my God, I've read it's gorgeous, and isn't it the oldest and deepest on earth?  Is it?  Really?  Oh my God, lovely, are you serious?"

Mycroft is. 

The place, the choice itself, has a secret meaning to him that is harder to talk about, but having what he does, now, nothing seems impossible. 

Even a panic attack, to be entirely honest.

***

John starts making notes, again. Here and there.  It's been a while. He thinks he might even have a new story in the pipes. 

He doesn't know who he'd ever show it to, but in his head it's looking wild.  He likes the beginning:

_What a super spy is made of, I thought I knew - it was not this mousey wisp of a soft-speaking chap with more manners than my Gran's tea-set, a sickly stare, and a bloody loud wristwatch to count off every second of my rising impatience.  Why I stepped aside and let him waft through my doorway is anyone's guess.  He thanked me when I locked the door, and who the hell does that._

_Who the hell._

_Buy shoe polish_

_socks_

_milk_

_carrots_

_frozen stuff_

_electric bill_

_suits to cleaner's_

***

Sherlock's eyes narrow and widen several times in seconds.  John gulps down sentimental remarks -- the annex room at the Glen Burns -- _this room, our room, now really our room, like, everyone's room all over again, bloody hell, this place_ \-- brings up a stream of memories until he coughs, tense and proud.  They stand aside, near the whitewashed fireplace mantel, as Alex approaches _that same_ registrar for a word, mainly to thank him for his willingness to administer their ceremony given short notice.

Sherlock leans into John and hisses at his ear, "It's the _tie_ , John.  It's.  _The same.  Tie_."

"Nah.  This one's uglier," John whispers back.  He finally breaks out into a grin.  "Probably has ten of them, changes them out."

"John!"

"Oh, come on, that isn't the same bloody tie!"

"Why _that_ tie.  The tie is nigh, the tie, rot your eye," Sherlock growls, through his teeth.  " _Why_!"

"Where's your brother, actually?"

"Who cares.  Gent's."

John waves a finger at Sherlock's hip, "Hey.  What's -- that.  Sticking out of your.  That's -- a card.  You have a _speech_?"

Sherlock nods, once.  "Yusss.  Wizened by experience, I wrote it in twenty-two minutes."

"What?  When?" 

"While you were showering for twenty-three?  Alone?  Oh.  You haven't written one?  I suppose not, you haven't been kept waiting."

"No, of course I don't have a speech!  Nobody said anything about speeches.   _They_ didn't give any last time." John licks his lips.  _Well, shit._ "Uhm.  What did you write?"

"My brother's journey, on becoming a man."

"Nooooo, just washed my ears, thank you," John remarks, rocking back and forth on the heels of his shoes.  He glances down to double-check he'd wiped the polish off the toes.   

"There's an _excellent_ anecdote about collecting leeches from a riverbed to sell, with a moral loosely concerning relationships, and another about our travels as children," Sherlock adds.

"Right.  Never showering without you again, I get it."

"Excellent." 

"Well, I have something, in my pocket, and you, my love, my beautiful phoenix, _won't see it if I hear another peep out of you about a speech_."

"Is that a threat."

"Might be."

"What do you have.  Besides the obvious.  Obvious, indeed.  Nice."

"You're the one who made me wear these _damned_ trousers."

"Now he protests.  Hmm.  A clue, John.  The material?"

"Metal.  Actually, I have two metal things.  Two different metals.  Stop it, don't look at me like that."

"Nnngh.  Not bullets?  Boring, shan't play."

" _No speech_ , that's --"

"An order.  Mm."

"What."

"Any other orders I might think of instead of this wedding rot?"

"I told you, my love, I've got something in my pocket.  And I might have orders, yeah, but not giving them _here_."

"That's my John."

"What?  Yeah.  Oh.  Huh." 

Mycroft has sauntered in, as only a Holmes can:  as though the room had waited to take shape around him.  And Alex has just put an arm around Mycroft's waist.  They are leaning in to talk so closely that they look about to kiss at any moment -- and this _would not be of any bloody interest, mind you_ \-- if it weren't so _new_.  They have been together for almost three years, John calculates with growing wonder, and reflection, that he has never once seen them touch each other, brush hands, hug, or even stand close at a door. 

_Oh God._

Sherlock has stiffened, his arms straight at his sides as he watches, puzzled and then mildly repulsed by his own curiosity.

"Look at that.  Human beings," John snorts for them both.

"Plural?" Sherlock mutters.

"Shut it."  John's brows leap up as he hears Alex saying, "I cannot imagine _anyone_ exceeding you, in _anything_ , don't.  You see, ginger kitty, you _always_ read my thoughts."

"They are charming." 

"Keep on, soon they're going to be far naughtier."

"I expect so."

Alex groans quietly.  John coughs.  Sherlock squeezes his teeth and takes his place next to Mycroft. 

Alex has not let go of his man's waist.  Mycroft puts an arm around his back, a gentle assurance that he doesn't retract during the brief ceremony.  John stands aside and sniffs a small laugh, mainly of surprise.  It is all becoming pure surrealism, and Sherlock defocuses in spite of himself.  His brother marries, right in front of him.  Marries, and accepts a heated kiss from the artist, in front of all of them, and blushes at the neck for all of them, too. 

It is just as well that nobody is able to speak for a minute.  And fortunately, John steps over and takes Sherlock's hand because it is time to go sign a large book, with a writing-thingy, and at least one hand is in a dry, grounding and warm clasp.  A reminder.  _It's all good_. _You're good.  You're mine.  And that's forever, too._

***

"Darling, I am so sorry, I just realised Henry's ring is in John's pocket!  By now they're at my flat, so I won't call."

"No."

"We'll give them half an hour or so, shall we?"

Mycroft smiles at that.  "In the spirit of -- well."

"Spirit of.  Mmm?"

They are back, to a beginning, their beginning.  The hidden staircase to the library at the _Glen Burns_ has not changed, in the least.  Only the light is poorer, through the tiny colourful glass panes in the shaft, but that is a matter of the earlier month and a very grey day.   

"I will tell you a story about this place," Mycroft says.

"A long one or a short one?"

"Somewhere in between.  When we were here last, and I locked the door behind us, you were unnerved.  Rightfully so.  It was poorly done, but I did not want to be disturbed.  Courage was in short supply, I regret to say.  The point, which...eludes...us both.  It's been painted, but some years ago you might have seen that the second stair was worn.  The second, only."

"Mmm.  Why?" Alex asks running the back of his fingers over Mycroft's waistcoat.    

"Ah, I wanted to know, myself.  In the earlier years of my career I spent some free time, here.  Plenty of it up in the library, which is how I discovered the staircase.  The closed design of this annex is relatively recent, and it is hired out for events.  It was once another reading room, hardly used.  The fireplace was poorly ventilated --"  Mycroft gazes into Alex's unreasonable, aroused eyes, and tries again to reach his point.  "And these stairs were a meeting place."

"Really!" 

"Ah - hm -- I was so unversed as to -- may I explain."  Mycroft sniffs.  _Blathering on._   "Where one might have been...versed.  But not as you might imagine."

"How did I not know?"

"When you were here as a student, would you have known where to look?"

"Perhaps if it had hit me in the face, at the right time.  So, no."  

"Precisely.  It was among the older members, anyhow.  I -- wanted to avoid a group at the base of the main staircase." Mycroft takes a deep breath.  "I tried this door.  It was bolted but I heard something, and I waited, until a gentlemen exited, and then I pushed my way in.  And I saw an answer as to why the second stair was worn," Mycroft explains.  "-- Sooner than I could explain that I'd intended to reach the library, in peace."

"That's actually really hot, oh my God." 

"No -- there was an amusing exchange, nothing more.  Concerning my choice of words -- 'in peace'.  But I could not forget the scenario, I thought of it, often."

"And?" 

"But.  To indulge in anything of the sort -- I'd been witness to enough in my work -- I could not imagine the rest, in any terms, it was a different time." Mycroft swallows, face warm.  "What is it?" 

Alex titters, "Ha.  Well, that you later founded that lovely club of yours with no hidden stairs.  Maybe you do have them but nobody can say a word about them."

Mycroft shakes his head but accepts several kisses to his cheek.  "Regrettably, it never crossed my mind.  A fatal lack of fantasy, you know too well."

"We are about to go off and fuck our way through Belarus and Russia, and you say you lack fantasy?  Mm?"  The artist leans back against the door and folds his arms. 

Mycroft chuckles to himself.  He is rather proud of that idea, and having thrown (a bit of) caution to the wind, he finds it easy to unbutton his jacket, now, and seat himself on _that_ second stair, legs spread.  Alex raises a brow.  "Ohh.  What is this, then?"

Mycroft seems to quoting or at least paraphrasing someone else:  "Eager to get somewhere?" he asks, and clasps his hands between his knees.  "'If you wanted the straight staircase, 's in the great hall.'" 

"Mhm," Alex answers.  "Kitty, is that how it was, though?  Then what?"

Mycroft shrugs a bit, "I went up to the library.  For the last time, until I met you, there.  Fourteen and a half years later."

Alex nibbles his lower lip and gazes at Mycroft in the dimness.  "You know, I think you liked me."

Mycroft grins, until his canines are glinting, and gestures loosely, "I think I did.  Open your trousers for us."

"Oh, ha.  _Is this is even happening_ ," Alex moans, fingers fumbling at his buttons and pants.  "I love you, darling, I love you.  Oh, my God."

"That won't do.  Pull them down, further." 

Alex pulls out his cock and strokes himself as he leans down to fill Mycroft's mouth with his tongue, first.

***

EPILOGUE

_Different contracting words than ours, more trad.?_

_Sth "above all, may you always believe in each other and may the warmth of your love enrich your lives and the lives of those around you. //  It gives me great pleasure to tell you both, you are now legally married."  Alex laughed._

_Remembered to kiss though just saying._

_Nothing diff. in rm. prob. on purpose to mess with our minds_

_Door in panel, second on right from fire-grate, shag room?? No other way they could've left room, heard a noise_

_Hot in car + showed off the key._

_Present for best man: key to flat "for whenever, come up for change of scene sometimes" hell yeah we will_

_F'd my phoenix to Led Z B-side.  Very good day_

 ***

"It's so white, perfectly white.  Only the hazel is out, have you seen it?"

"Ah.  Yes."

"They drive -- assertively."

"It is a one-way road, and cleared.  Entirely.  We wouldn't meet anyone head on for hours...mm."

"What, darling?"

"Apologies.  The incomprehensible horrors, witnessed by these forests."

"I can't imagine it, looking at it now.  But I believe you."

"Among the first purges -- I cannot expect you to imagine who vanished first.  It was those in the forestry services, and those who worked for the railway.  And their families.  Why, you may ask.  Who better to organise partisan activity, than those who know every inch of the forest?  And those who knew the rails, and that they were modular -- ah.  They've been spotted...very good."

"Oh.  Dear.  Why -- are we slowing -- down?  Mycroft, is everything all right?"

"It won't be long, now...."

"What is it, darling, you're scaring --"

"Shh, hush.  And look out when they open the window.  It will be very cold, put on your hat, and look to your right.  A moment more.  Keep watching out to the right....  Ah, there."

"Oh!  Dear Lord, look at them!  Ah ha ha...kitty, kitty, darling, those are...living bison...!"

"Reintroduced.  After a brush with extinction.  And now.  Thriving."  Mycroft's voice fails him.  He curls his gloved hands tightly into fists.  Lets them go again.  His teeth hurt from grinding them under such pressure, and he has to release them.

_Thriving._

_Hope._  

It is a sensation as startling as -- the appearance of tears in the eyes of an ice-like man of reason.  

But hopes this enormous would make anyone raw inside.  

And these feel very new.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everything, from the bottom of my heart. This has been an amazing experience.


End file.
